


Endless Night

by cheshirewritesagain2402



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Almost Death Of Main Character, Angry John, Background Case, Best Friends, Depression, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Helpful Greg Lestrade, Helpful Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Overdosing, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, in the past though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 03:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirewritesagain2402/pseuds/cheshirewritesagain2402
Summary: When Sherlock returns from the dead, everything has changed. His best friend John is living with his current girlfriend Mary, and appears to be constantly angry with him.His mind doesn’t work like it used to before; he is slower, uninterested in most cases and there is a heavy, grey cloud hanging over his brain on the best days, a thunderstorm on the worst.It all seems to get worse and worse, until one day, during a case, a familiar person shows up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all.  
I totally felt like this fandom needed more support, so here I am (: I love the characters Sherlock and Victor, because I think they compliment each other nicely and are interesting to watch together.  
I took most things / characters from the original Arthur Conan Doyle books (including Sherlock’s flat, which is really based in Baker Street, in case someone wonders about the topography of my London), apart from John. John is based on the horrible version that the latest TV series gave us after The Fall. To me, he just appeared angry and disapproving of everything Sherlock did, so I took that up and over exaggerated a bit (okay, maybe more than a bit) and I felt it worked fine.  
This fic was written as a character study for one of my real projects, whose characters are loosely based on Victor and Sherlock. It also escalated a bit (again) because of my insomnia on some days.  
The story was written on a phone, mostly at night, and though I re-read it, there might be some typos, or plot-holes. Please do let me know if there should be something gravelly wrong.  
Apart from that, please enjoy. As in all my fics, there is no update schedule. Should it be abandoned, I will let you know, but unless I do so, it might be months until I update again, or maybe days. Who knows.  
Thanks for reading my extensive introduction. Here is your story:  
Fade Out.
> 
> UPDATE January 2020:  
My faithful readers.  
I had to update some things in the story I wasn't happy about, before adding another chapter, and found out that it is so much, that I reposted the whole first chapter. No worries, you will get your smut scene back in a few days, as well as a brand new chapter. Until then, please get acquainted with my slightly changed version of my own story.  
I apologise for that and thank you for reading.  
Love.  
C.

SHERLOCK

_The pattern of speech: slow but not too slow. Measured, as if the person - for once, hallelujah - was indeed thinking before they spoke._

_The depth of the voice: clearly male, no doubt. A comforting baritone, almost a bass but not quite. Not unlike mine, but still somehow different. Good different._

_The certain way of pronouncing different syllables in correlation to each other: hard to describe but definitely there when heard. British accent, but hard to tell where from. Slight hint of Midlands but can’t be sure about it._

_The uncertainty that swung in the voice: afraid, no unsure, of his whole being here. Then why is he here? _

_Excited. Waiting for something._

_Waiting for… recognition._

_Recognition of what? Of whom?_

_Something oddly familiar about those little words. Something in that one locked part of the mind palace. Something... Oh._

_The unusual part about it; my given name. No one used my given name in years, not even Mycroft. Not since parents died. So, then the only conclusion, ladies and gentlemen…_

Sherlock turned around with his usual grace, coat flurrying around him, looking into Victor Trevor’s ethereal green eyes. They haven’t aged a day, although the man had. Fifteen years had changed his face, crow’s feet had appeared around his eyes, a former shallow line on his forehead was now more prominent.

_Because he always used to frown._

The door to the room in his memory palace burst open with a loud pang, memories came crashing back, as vividly as if everything had happened yesterday.

This was unacceptable. He was on a case.

He willed the door shut again but for the first time in a long while, he had no control over his mind palace.

“Will.”

Only now he realised he had reacted to a name that no one had called him in... well, fifteen years.

“What are you doing here?”, left his mouth before he could stop it.

Victor’s eyebrow rose lightly, a small smile appearing on his lips.

“I see, as eloquent as always.”

“Still ever the poet.”, Sherlock wanted to quip, but it came out fonder than he had intended.

Victor’s smile grew wider, his eyes glistening with something that Sherlock had never expected to see ever again. It was very _Victor_.

Only now the detective realised that the whole room had stopped moving to watch them.

Sherlock turned on his heels, heading outside in, once more, a flurry of coat.

Victor was here. That was important. Other people were not important at the moment. The _case_ was not important.

That hadn’t happened in… ever. The case, the _work_, was almost the most important thing on earth. No person, no nothing, had the power to take his attention off a case. And yet, here he was, storming away from a crime scene, admittedly one that was already a few days old but nevertheless a crime scene, because Victor Trevor had appeared out of nowhere after all these years.

_Victor Trevor._

_Victor. _

_Why?_

Sherlock didn’t realise that he was still walking in quick strides until he found himself in a different part of the city.

Footsteps were audible behind him. He didn’t turn around but kept on walking.

There had been texts. Sometimes. Of course. Why shouldn’t there have been? Sometimes a lot. But meeting in person?

Texts were save. Texts could keep the door in his mind palace shut. And on top of all that, there hadn’t been any contact at all for a few years now.

Sherlock had followed Victor’s “extremely secret missions” through Mycroft’s “extremely secret program” which wasn’t that secret at all, since he had managed to hack into it on multiple occasions. There were no details, of course not, but for a check if someone was still alive, they were still good. Or if he had to make a trip to a “private and secret” hospital. Which hadn’t been the case for a few years now as well.

This situation now? This couldn’t do any good, Sherlock was sure of it.

Although Mycroft had told him multiple times that caring was not the advantage he perceived it to be – yes he really thought that in his youth – Sherlock had never believed that to be true for him and Victor. Still did not believe it, for the records. They had always cared about each other, even though they hadn’t really seen each other in so long. And maybe, only maybe, checking that Victor was still alive showed that Sherlock still hasn’t stopped caring. That maybe all hope wasn’t lost yet between two estranged friends. A friend like none he had ever had. A friend so much alike, that it was sometimes frightening, but different in so many ways. Victor had always been better with people, better with talking, with empathising. He was the one who had kept Sherlock grounded, even when he was away and they only texted.

The years, in which they hadn’t spoken at all, had been hard, but Sherlock had accepted that Victor had his own life. That he had maybe found a wife – but no children, that would have been too difficult in his job as a spy for the British Government - oh, my apologies, Mycroft doesn’t like when they are called spies, but that’s what they are. He had accepted that his former friend had not really wanted anything to do with him anymore. Which was fine. Really.

Now he was back. The situation was different. Why was he back? Why was he at the crime scene? Had he planned on coming to see him, if they hadn’t met by chance as they had or would Victor have left London once more without saying his goodbyes? Without even letting Sherlock know that he was in town?

Victor, who was following him now. Not catching up on purpose, just following.

An hour and a half later, his feet had almost taken him back to Baker Street, Victor still behind him.

If Sherlock would have wanted him to stop following, Victor would have known and left him alone. To be precise, Sherlock didn’t know if he wanted to talk to him, but he most definitely didn’t want him not in his presence, so he was a slight bit relieved that Victor was still following him.

The consulting detective turned right on the next street, heading towards Regent’s Park.

Not many people were around today, the weather was too British, even for die-hard Londoners. It had started to drizzle, Sherlock couldn’t even say how long ago, thus Sherlock’s hair ended up being all frizzy and damp. It would annoy him, normally. Now he barely even noticed.  
The case. He tried to think of the case, but he couldn’t focus. Not with Victor behind him. The murder victim. But Victor was there. The bloodstains on the floor. But why was Victor here?

Sherlock’s feet dragged him farther, farther, into the park and up the small path, which wound between trees and bushes, hidden from the few tourists that took pictures with the fountain and sculptures.

Away from everyone’s eyes, Sherlock stopped, not caring for the dirt that would now surely cover his fancy dress shoes.

The small bench on the side of the path was wet from the earlier rain, so he opted to stand instead, finally allowing Victor to completely catch up with him.

Sherlock didn’t look at him as Victor’s quiet steps stopped beside him, not too close but still in his personal space. Still closer than almost anybody he knew would stand.

They both looked at something in the distance that only they could see, through the branches and brown leaves of the trees in front of them.

“Why _are_ you here?”, Sherlock repeated himself, despite loathing to do so. Victor was apparently still his exception to everything, as it seemed. 

Victor took a breath and turned his head to look at the detective.

“The honest answer, or the one I’m supposed to give?” Victor gave a slight, unhappy chuckle, not expecting an answer from Sherlock, who certainly wouldn’t dignify it with one. “I’m here to sell the estate of my father’s. He’s been dead for a while now, and I don’t plan on living in his house anyway. Which is not wrong, I don’t.”

“But you are here for the case.” It wasn’t a question.

Victor gave a sharp nod.

“Your brother wanted me to have a look into it. The man, he was one of us. He got involved with the wrong people on his last mission, as it seems, and they followed him home. Luckily, he decided to stay in a hotel room in the city before travelling home to see his parents. They are both fine but in shock at the moment.”

“And you’re here to solve his case, which means I’m off it. Good luck with it.”  
Sherlock turned to move again, but Victor caught his sleeve. Reluctant, Sherlock waited but didn’t turn back.

“I would love for us to work together.”

“You know very well that Mycroft wouldn’t allow that. Too many secrets, remember?”

Mycroft, although he had always approved of the friendship between the two youngers, had refused to give him details about Victor’s missions before. He understood, but he had hated it.

“Mycroft knew what he did when he called me back into town. He would have anticipated us meeting, especially since he knows that you work so close with the yard these days. He wouldn’t disapprove, I’m sure of it.”

Sherlock still wasn’t convinced. After all those years. Why? Why wanted Victor to come back to him?

Victor rubbed a palm across his face. He most likely knew the questions in Sherlock’s head, could probably read them with his face turned. It always had been like this.

“I found out about your death on TV, you know. I was on a mission and had no access to anybody of the British Government at the moment. It would have been too dangerous.”

Sherlock almost, almost winced but willed himself to stay stock-still. He only put his hands in the pocket of his coat for warmth. Suddenly he felt very cold.

“I was in my hotel room, preparing for the next day. The mission was almost complete, just a few last things to do. I heard the whole story, and I’m not sure what happened after, for I blacked out after hearing the story. I went into a fury, I destroyed most of the hotel room. Then I felt sorry and cleaned it all up again, including the many shards from glasses and bottles. My hands were shaking so badly, that I had more than a few lacerations. My blood was everywhere. Then I realised that it was very stupid to leave my DNA so freely all over the place. I cleaned the whole room meticulously, spend the whole night doing so.  
In the morning, I went out to finish my mission. I’m not proud of the things I did on that day, but I can’t change them. I was so angry. Angry at myself. Angry that I hadn’t talked to you in so long. Angry that I hadn’t come back to you.”

Victor took a deep breath.

Sherlock had to close his eyes; they were burning for one reason or the other.

“When I came back to base, I immediately contacted Mycroft. He told me the truth after he found out what happened on my mission.”

Victor laughed humourlessly.

“I felt stupid and regretted my behaviour somewhat, for they were not good people to begin with, but most of all, I felt relieved. I have never felt like this in my whole life, and I knew that I had to come back to London and see you as soon as possible. I asked Mycroft to assign me any mission in England, whatever he had, because I wanted to see you again. Mycroft assured me, as soon as you were back and settled in once more, he would bring me back to London. And he did.”

Sherlock felt like throwing up. Certainly not like crying, he didn’t do crying.

Sherlock’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. Most likely from the ball in his throat that threatened to choke him.

“We never...” He cleared his throat. “We never spoke anymore. You wouldn’t have noticed that I wasn’t… here anymore.”

Victor grabbed Sherlock’s arm and twisted him around.

Finally Sherlock faced Victor. His oh-so-well-put-together mask was slipping and, for the first time in more than a decade, there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

Victor’s eyes held his in a stern but familiar grip, waiting but not pushing. He was so close. When had he come that close?

_Lazy, Sherlock. Missing something like that could cost your life._ he scolded himself.

_One wrong move. That was all. A small slip up._

_A whip._

_Blood._

_More whipping._

_Crashing down._

_Splitting skin._

_Tearing._

_Pain._

_Cold. So cold._

_Then, a voice._

_Strange._

_Familiar._

_Victor._

“William. Come back to me.”

And Sherlock did. With Victor’s help, he managed to slam the door shut. For now.

Victor didn’t touch him anymore but he was still very close. There was so much worry in his gaze that Sherlock knew he had at least partially deduced what was going on. Yet he didn’t say anything. They just kept staring at each other.

It was one of the rare occasions on which Sherlock had to look up. Victor had a few inches on him in height.

Sherlock’s cheeks felt wet, but he refused to believe it was something other than the annoyingly drizzling rain.

“You came to see me.”

The right corner of Victor’s mouth dipped upwards slightly.

“Of course I did. And I came to work on the case with you.”

Sherlock gave a sharp nod and faced away from Victor once more. He could only take so much emotions in one day. His body, his mind, wasn’t used to deal with all these… confusing and constricting feelings.

“So.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “You need my help with the case, because you are not getting anywhere on your own.”

Victor was silent for a second, before he broke out into laughter. Even Sherlock couldn’t help but smile a little.

“You know.”, Victor said as he took Sherlock’s hand and hooked it through his arm. “You might not be wrong about it. We’ll see who’s the better investigator, though.”

Sherlock looked up at him and felt like a boy again. They were meant to be with each other, he could feel it. Sod Mycroft for all the crap he has been telling Sherlock so often. Sometimes, he thought, people just belonged together. Victor made him feel like home. Victor made him feel like he didn’t need drugs. Victor was his drug.

MEANWHILE - JOHN

John had arrived at Baker Street in a cab and alone. He refused to let Sherlock irritate him anymore. He had forgiven the man for playing dead, or well, he was still in the process of trying to do so. He wasn’t sure anything like this could be forgiven. Especially after Sherlock refused to change his behaviour again and again. He had dashed off after seeing the stranger and that was that. Not a single word. Nothing.

Greg had been “not allowed” to give him any information on who the stranger was, so he had felt like the only fool on the crime scene and therefore had left shortly after Sherlock had disappeared with the stranger in tow.

After Mrs Hudson had let him into the front door, but no one had answered Sherlock’s flat, he had decided to have a drink while waiting for him. He needed a drink now more than ever when he had to deal with Sherlock. The thought, that he had been able to deal with Sherlock once without needing the occasional (regular) drink, was an impossible one. Sherlock’s presence just annoyed him with every breath he took. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his friend anymore, but he felt betrayed and hadn’t even gotten a proper apology for having been put through hell while his “friend” went gallivanting around the world.

There was a nice and fairly quiet pub just off Baker Street, and he had texted Sherlock where to find him. That bloody idiot would have probably been able to deduce it anyways.

John took his third drink – beer, his preferred one, although he had a shot or two of vodka earlier, it was fairly cold out already - to his otherwise empty table by the window, staring at the miserable weather. He hated the weather too, nowadays. It was always miserable and cold. It was October, that was nothing special, but John felt like it was worse than any year before.

Mary, his girlfriend, the one he wanted to marry when he would bring up the courage to ask her, had days, when she seemed to be glad that he left the flat on the weekends, going to the pub with an acquaintance or two. He admitted that maybe he was a bit short-tempered lately and got, maybe, back to betting a bit more, but what of it? He earned his own money and he could bloody well do with it what he wanted. It wasn’t as if they were married already. They had a nice flat, he had a stable job. He just didn’t know what she wanted of him. For now, she was still too nice to say anything, but he could see in her eyes that she sometimes wanted to have a serious word. Probably about the gambling. Maybe about the drinking. He usually disappeared when she got that look in her eyes.

Suddenly he saw a tall, lean figure walking towards Baker Street. Sherlock. Finally.

The detective appeared not to be looking at his phone, which he usually did while walking. A habit, like so many others, that John had tried to get out of him, without any luck. In this case, Sherlock probably had not seen his text yet. Or had chosen to ignore it. Whichever was fine with John. He would have a word with him once they were back at the flat.

John took a drink from his beer.

And then John almost choked on his sip.

Sherlock was indeed walking past the window now, but beside him was the stranger, who had appeared at the crime scene, walking arm in arm with the detective.

They appeared to be in a deep conversation, neither of them looking around much. They were too focussed on each other.

That John needed to see for himself.

He finished off his beer far too quickly and left for 221B.

This time, Sherlock opened the door to his flat. Obviously. Because he was home now, after all. Clearly.

“Ah, John, good.”

Sherlock moved away and John stepped through the door.

“The case is somewhat more complicated than we first thought and a lot more secret, so we have to…”

But John wasn’t listening to Sherlock anymore.

The stranger from earlier on stood in their living room, following Sherlock’s pacing with his eyes, while he appeared to be listening to him. However, despite his attention drawn by Sherlock, John couldn’t shake the feeling, that the stranger was keeping a very close eye on him. He felt watched. And he didn’t like this feeling. There was something unsettling about the guy, something that made John feel uneasy to be in the same room with him.

He was quite handsome to look at, even straight John had to admit that. His face was defined and angled just in the right way, but his features not too sharp. He was lean, but John, years of army behind him, suspected muscles and a lot more strength underneath the trench coat he was wearing.

His grey slacks were neatly pressed and the black shoes were polished to a T, apart from the few stains of fresh dirt on them. Probably from his walk with Sherlock, since the detective’s shoes were in a similar condition.

God, he had to stop this. He was already becoming like Sherlock.

John was suddenly aware that he had been staring at the stranger for too long and now both of the other two men were staring at him in return; Sherlock irritated and the stranger amused.

Had Sherlock met the stranger during his time away? Had he managed to replace John in those two years of his absence? He definitely wouldn't put it beyond his so-called friend to pull off something like this. He had, after all, bloody fucking died without letting him know. He had disappeared and not given a shit about how John felt, about how painful it would be for him. So he could have very well found a new sidekick, as they liked to call John behind their hands.

“John, you clearly have been drinking. I can’t need you in this state, you’re not able to focus properly. Go home and get some sleep and we’ll meet again tomorrow to discuss the case. For now, Victor here will do.”

John narrowed his eyes.

Yeah, okay, he was tipsy. Maybe more than tipsy. He had had no food all day, alright? But whose fault was that? Whose fault was it, that he got called out of bed in the morning? Who insisted that the came immediately, without giving him time for breakfast just because he himself didn’t eat?!

On top of that, he maybe had drunk those beers, and one or two vodkas, he wasn’t all that sure anymore, a little too fast and the effect was only now really kicking in, fresh air and all. But hey, there were so many things he wanted to say to Sherlock, that he would certainly never say sober. Or well, he would, but not in the way he'd like to, because he would feel bad for his friend again and this wouldn't do. No, his friend needed to learn that he had done something terrible and he couldn't pull a stunt like this anymore. He was way too selfish when it came down to it, and that was more than not okay in a friendship. His new sidekick would find that out soon enough.

“Am I not good enough to join your private party here?” It came out much harsher than intended in the first place, but John didn’t feel sorry. Just as Sherlock didn't feel sorry for his actions. A half-assed apology wasn’t worth anything and John wouldn’t accept any less than he deserved anymore.

John had just put up with too much crap of his already as to even feel only remotely sorry for what he was going to say. What was going to explode out of him. No, he would tell him straight to his face, and then maybe he would feel better about all of this.

But… Also punching Sherlock had felt good, he had to admit that in his inebriated state, and he would love to do it again. Just to teach him a lesson. Apparently, words were no good with him, but as one said, actions apparently spoke louder.

John took a step forward towards Sherlock and so did the stranger – Victor, Sherlock had called him? - carefully moving so he could step between the two “friends”, if he had to.

“I just-”, began Sherlock.

“No!”, John almost shouted. He had never wanted to lose control like this, but all the pent-up frustration surfaced. All his small problems in his relationship with Mary, everything that annoyed him at the moment, which was a lot, it all came bubbling up and there was no way he could stop it.

“You listen to me for a change!”

Sherlock was stunned into silence it seemed.

The stranger, John preferred to call him that in his head, moved in a defensive position, ready to get between Sherlock and himself, if he had to, but John barely noticed. He was too focused on yelling at Sherlock.

“You keep running off without telling me! You keep fucking things up in this friendship, if that’s what you call it! You disappeared, no, not only that, you faked your own fucking death to go gallivanting around the world. You didn’t even bother trying to tell me that you were still alive! But even your brother knew. The brother you claim to be your arch-enemy. You trusted him but not me. You were never my friend. Everything you do has to benefit you in the first place. You don’t care about others. You are incapable of being a friend. That’s why you had no friends before me. No one bothers to stick around with you for long, if at all, because they see who you are. A selfish bastard.”

John stepped towards Sherlock to... he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. And he wasn’t to find out.

The stranger stepped in and grabbed the lapels of John’s jacket, holding him fast.

VICTOR

There was no way that Victor would let this little shit-face, sincerely beg your pardon, Dr John Watson, blogger and apparently best friend to Sherlock Holmes, verbally abuse his _abeille_ any longer, and he most definitely would not let him attack his friend physically as long as he was there.

Victor hadn’t felt that protective in a very long time, but he couldn’t help himself. Will, Sherlock, brought out this side in him, and he couldn’t fight it.

“I think, you better leave.”, Victor suggested calmly.

Dr. Watson, clearly inebriated, stared at him with wide eyes. He most likely hadn’t expected him to step in. Or maybe he had expected it, but was now at loss what to do, because he was too drunk to fight back.

They stood frozen until Victor was sure that Watson wouldn’t try to attack Will anymore. Only then he let go and stepped back so that he was still shielding Will with his body.

Watson still seemed angry but not furious anymore. He tugged his jacket back in place as he glared at Victor.

“Who the fuck are you anyway?”, he grumbled.

Victor could feel his _abeille_ standing stiffly behind him. Something wasn’t right; hadn’t been right since Watson had started to shout at him. Best if he got _les scélérat_ out of the flat as soon as possible.

“My name is Victor Trevor, and I will not tolerate you speaking like this to my best friend, so please leave. Now.”

Watson scowled at him.

“This used to be my flat as much as...”

“You said it, doctor, used to be. Now please leave.”

“Or what?”, he asked challengingly.

Victor didn’t feel like fighting, not with Will being wrong, but if he had to, to defend his _abeille_, then he would. 

Watson looked as if he wanted to stand his ground, decided better of it, and turned on his heels. As he left the flat, he slammed the door shut.

SHERLOCK

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Slowly, blood trickled to the floor, landing in the same crimson puddle over and over, resulting in it getting bigger, bigger._

_The chains around his wrists dug painfully into flesh._

_He barely felt his legs anymore._

_He was too far gone to make sense of the words, but someone was shouting at him. It rang in his ears. It was so angry. And he knew what it meant when it was so angry._

_The whip came down again hard, his whole body sagged forward. The chains were the only thing holding him upright now, putting another blinding pain in his shoulders. He was surprised they weren’t yet dislocated. Or maybe they were and he just didn’t know._

_A face appeared. The green eyes looked at him, loving, kind, always so kind. The smile made his heart speed up, made him forget the pain in his body. It was just transport after all._

_He tried to form words out loud but he couldn’t._

_He thought them instead._

_‘Victor. I’m so sorry. Victor. Please. Victor. Victor. Vic...’_

“William.”

_He never answered. Why was he answering now?_

“Will.”, more insistent.

_He heard him._

“Victor!”, he tried to shout and his mouth formed the words, but they came out croaked and small.

“Abeille, come back to me.”

Sherlock’s gaze cleared and the cellar, the blood, the whipping was gone.

And he was here.

Victor was here.

“Victor. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m...”, Sherlock rambled.

He was sitting on the floor of his living room, hands in his hair, knees drawn in. Protective.

Victor knelt before him, gently trying to pry his hands from his hair. 

The spy shushed him soothingly and, as much as Sherlock would have liked to say something downgrading about his behaviour, it worked. Sherlock felt his breathing slow as his heart stopped speeding. His thoughts cleared more and more and he was aware that he was in his flat in Baker Street.

And Victor was here, really here.

Sherlock reached his hands out and grabbed Victor's shirt as tight as he could, fearing, irrationally, that he would just disappear into thin air, like he had done all the other times before and he would wake up again in this hell hole.

"I'm here.", Victor assured him.

The spy carefully pulled him into his arms, holding him as he felt himself shaking apart, crying as he had on so many terrible nights when he couldn't sleep, couldn't work, couldn't think.

Victor just held him. He didn't try soothing him with stupid words, didn't try to tell him it would be alright again, because he wasn't sure if it was ever going to be alright.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long they sat there. Victor, surely, must be all cramped up by now, sitting in a position that couldn't be comfortable.

He had stopped sobbing a while ago, but still Victor hadn't let go of him, still held him as fast as he had when he had first pulled him into his arms.

By now it had gone dark outside, almost enough to not be able to see each other in the flat anymore.

Sherlock stirred and lifted his head from where it rested on Victor's shoulder.

Victor turned towards him, a small frown of concern on his features.

"Victor?"

"Yes?"

"You called me your best friend."

Victor laughed softly, moving to sit more comfortable without letting go of Sherlock.

“Heard that, didn’t you? As far as I’m concerned, we always were and still are.” Victor searched his eyes for something, that he apparently found. “There never has been anybody like you, William Sherlock Holmes, and never will be.”

The detective held the spy's gaze for a long moment.

"For me neither.", he whispered.

Victor smiled and stood, pulling Sherlock up with him.

"Okay, let's get some food. And a shower. Definitely a shower for you. Your hair is a mess."

Sherlock scowled at him. Victor laughed and it sounded like the most beautiful symphony he had ever heard. The sound of it did something to Sherlock, that he would never ever admit to.

Victor pulled out his phone.

"I assume you don’t have food here? Which takeout do you fancy?"

"I don't eat while on cases.", Sherlock stated, trying to get back his usual grace, but failing. He sounded weak, as if he had just been crying. Which he obviously hadn't. Just the thought of it was ridiculous.

"I know, bee. But you eat with me.", Victor answered with a wink and tapped away on his phone.

Sherlock had to admit, he was right. Even on cases, somehow Victor managed to get some food into him, most of the time by letting him steal off his own plate. Eventually Sherlock would end up eating about half of the food on his friend's plate.

"Not on a case.", he insisted, because he knew it was futile anyways.

"You still love prawns sweet-sour?"

Sherlock shrugged, fighting to keep the corners of his mouth down.

"Thought so much."

LATER - VICTOR

William was in the shower for a long time. Not that Victor wasn’t used to that. He fully expected him to be gone for at least twenty minutes. Will always had loved long, hot showers. When they had shared a dorm room at university, he had often wondered what it would have been like to have such a shower together. But Will never had been the type for that. They had cuddled and had a very peculiarly close relationship, but against other people’s opinion of them, they had never been in a romantic or sexual relationship.

The spy shook his head to get that thought out of his mind. His abeille was deeply hurt, his mind was playing tricks on him and in Will’s case, that could end really, really badly. He had to focus on his friend right now, and not on his (unchanged) desires towards the younger man.

Under no circumstances Victor would let him fall back into his drug habit. It was good that he had come now, to stand by his side, as he should have done from the beginning.

But when you’re young, sometimes love isn’t enough. It was never, for either of them. They both had wanted more from life, more than each other. But now, maybe, it was different. Maybe love could be enough now?

There never had been a doubt in Victor’s mind that Sherlock loved him as fiercely as he loved him, but the kind of love had been a different one. Sherlock had admired him, had adored him, and Victor had loved him silently, romantically, for all those years. Their definition of love had been a different one, but they had made it work.

Victor had left almost instantly after his graduation, since his father had fallen ill.

Victor, you have to know, was originally from Norfolk, but his father had owned a business, which was run from New York and at this time he hadn’t been feeling too well. He had opted not to fly to and from Britain the whole time and had stayed in New York.

His mother had died when he was only a small child, he barely remembered her. No brothers or sisters.

That might have been a reason why he had felt lonely most of the times, before he had met William. Although Victor had been, still was, quite charming, he was never one to easily open up to other people. Sherlock had been the only one, until now, who he had let into his life properly, telling him everything. It had been hard to lose him. But that was how life played out, sometimes. He had imagined that Will had found someone to be happy with, had success in his career, and wanted to get on with his life. Victor had been okay with that, although it had hurt not to talk to him at all anymore.

After Victor’s father had died, only months later, he had had no choice but take over the business or let somebody else take over. His pride wouldn’t have let him do the latter, so he stayed in New York unexpectedly, hurting both, himself and Will.

That was the year Will, still at university at this point with Victor being three years his senior - William had jumped a two classes before coming to uni - had started with drugs.

They had kept in touch but he had, obviously, never mentioned his addiction.

Victor had felt terrible and blamed himself when he had found out about it through Mycroft, but his business had been fragile after the leadership change and he couldn’t have afforded to leave. He had hated himself for it and still did so now.

Then William had overdosed. Victor had been on the next plane home.

He had sat by his bed in hospital, visited him in rehab, as far as he had been allowed to, and helped Will to get better.

Will had never said anything about it, but Victor had known that he had been more than grateful.

By the time he had been back to New York, he had had a job offer from Mycroft to come and work for him for the MI6. Mycroft had tried to recruit him earlier, but Victor had always declined because of his business.

Now that he was back though, he realised that this wasn’t a life he wanted to lead. He sold his company for quite a respectable amount of money – thanks to some help from Mycroft – and disappeared from the radar.

Will had been less than thrilled to hear about this decision, deeming that the work would be too dangerous for Victor. His friend had to remind him, that his wish to become a consulting detective involved equal risks, especially in a city like London, and considering Will’s sometimes reckless behaviour, and the younger had reluctantly backed off.

Victor had enjoyed the training, although it had been hard. He had never been a very physically active guy, besides a bit of running, but he had pushed through. Mycroft had deemed his mind important enough, that he was pushed through everything by the best people available, ensuring that he would be able to defend himself in every situation. Maybe he had also had his little brother in mind, who would have surely killed him, had something happened to Victor.

William had always worried about him, although they had stayed in touch as much as they could from then on. In a way, his job as a spy had benefitted their relationship.

Victor had gotten hurt more than a few times and had sent Will into desperation with it, but he had always recovered. Will had always been there at the hospital with him.

Victor wasn’t really sure what his plans were when this case ended, but he had no intentions of going away again, at least not for good, now that he has seen Will again. He probably couldn’t bear to leave him again. Oh, who was he kidding, he couldn’t. Full stop. Especially now that William clearly needed help and he would not leave his abeille until he was better. May it be months or years. Also, because he knew that Will wouldn’t accept any other help besides his.

Victor knew, more or less, what was going on in Will. He recognised the haunted look in his eyes from his mentally weaker colleagues, or from colleagues, who had come back from a mission where they had been kidnapped and tortured. They had had their mental training, as well as he had, but every human has a breaking point. They had been tortured past it. And Victor knew – he hoped that he was wrong but he was pretty sure he wasn’t – that Sherlock had been through more than he should have ever been through.

Those people that had hurt his Will, that did this to him, they would pay, he would make sure of that. He would do it as soon as he could safely get away for a few weeks, go hunt them down, because he knew that Mycroft wouldn’t have had them all killed or incarcerated by now. He probably had kept a few, if not all, alive to cover his tracks of involvement. Victor would find them. And then he would have some fun with them. He could be very creative, if he wanted to, if he had to. He had seen too many things, done too many things, he knew exactly what he was doing, how to hurt a person, how to make them suffer for an extended period, hours, without them passing out, just delivering the right amount of pain to their useless, filthy bodies...

“Victor.” and the feeling of a hand on his shoulder ripped him from his violent, blood-soaked thoughts. Years of being a spy had also left their tracks in his mind.

Only now Victor realised that the glass, which he had been holding in his hand to get some tap water, had smashed. He had squeezed it to pieces with his bare hand.

Blood slowly trickled onto the floor.

Victor opened his hand and let go of the shards immediately and they joined the rest, of what had once before been a glass, on the floor.

“Will, I’m sorry.”

Will just took his wrist and gently turned his hand over. The cuts weren’t too deep, luckily, but there were still some small shards stuck in his palm.

“This needs to get cleaned.”, Will said in a quiet voice.

Victor could see that he was struggling at the sight of blood, and he didn’t want him to get lost in that dark place in his mind again.

“Don’t worry, I can do it.”

“No.”

There was some rummaging in one of the kitchen drawers, then some splashing of liquid, before Sherlock returned with tweezers in his hand.

“Don’t worry, I disinfected them.”

Victor chuckled quietly.

“I trust you to know how to patch somebody up. You survived until now.”

Will carefully started to pull the small shards out of his hand. Victor watched him without so much as blinking.

Only now did Victor realise that Will had only wrapped his lower half in a towel. Water droplets still clung to his upper body, slowly trailing down and disappearing into the towel.

When Will was done, Victor grabbed a kitchen towel from the counter and wrapped it around his bleeding hand.

“We need to properly clean this.”

Will grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the bathroom he recently vacated.

As the detective turned his back to walk before him, Victor’s breath hitched in his throat. There were scars. A lot. On his back, his shoulders, his upper arms… his wrists. How had he not seen that before? Will looked like someone had done a, excuse the French, piss-poor job of patching him up. More likely, and terrible, however, was the fact that he hadn’t been patched up at all until it had been too late and the wounds had been infected. Then they had to be treated and would have left those scars.

Victor could tell the moment Will noticed his mistake and let go of his wrist.

“I’ll just...”, he muttered and quickly disappeared into his room.

Victor followed him, holding the door before it could fall closed.

“Will.”, he said softly, not entering yet.

William stopped in his tracks, frozen, no doubt preparing himself for Victor’s response to the scars on his body.

But Victor knew. He knew what it meant to have scars. He hated to be pitied for them or being looked upon as ugly because of them. And nothing, no matter what, could ever be ugly on Will for Victor.

“May I come in?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Will gave a sharp nod, but didn’t turn around to face him.

Victor came up until he was standing directly behind Sherlock and scanned his back.

The scars were bad, really bad. Victor had a few admirable ones himself, and he knew how much those had hurt. Seeing them on his abeille, so many of them, made him feel nauseous.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock took a deep breath.

He had to calm down. He couldn’t go to this dark place again, not when Victor was here. Victor was his light at the end of every jet-black tunnel, the star that guided him even in the darkest of nights. 

Sherlock had seen him there, when he was in shackles on the dirty floor. He had been his only comfort, the only reason why he hadn’t lost his mind there.

Despite all that, he had never believed that he was still thinking about his friend like this. This warm fuzzy feeling in his belly, it had returned as soon as he had seen him again.

Sherlock had thought, hoped, that he was past such emotions, but no such luck. He shouldn’t let himself feel like this, he knew, because eventually, when the case was done, Victor would leave again. Besides that, Victor had never felt like this for him. Victor had loved him, and still did, Sherlock was certain of that, but it had been brotherly love, always. He had been the best of friends somebody could have wished for, and Sherlock had never dared to say anything, because he would have risked losing his friend. And that just wouldn’t do.

But now, now they were both different. What would Victor think of him now, covered in scars? Victor hadn’t pitied him in the first place, which was good, but then again, he hadn’t given him any time to do so.

Now Sherlock couldn’t turn around to meet his gaze, couldn’t, no, didn’t want to see that look in Victor’s eyes. Pity was just a reminder of his own carelessness, of him screwing up. He had been no better than an ordinary person, had made mistakes that he shouldn’t have made, and he had had to deal with the consequences.

It was bad enough that Victor had already seen him break down, had seen that his once so brilliant mind was all messed up, because he hadn’t been able to do a job right. And now his oldest friend, his dearest one, whom he never had expected to see again, had also seen the scars on his body, telling his story of failure, despite him coming out the winner. 

He could feel Victor’s breath on the nape of his neck now, warm and tickling. Sherlock closed his eyes. Don’t go away. Please.

“May I?”, he whispered.

Sherlock opened his eyes, confused for a moment. Then he felt Victor’s good hand on the towel around his waist. What...? He could clearly only want to check his thighs for needle marks. Sherlock had never made a habit of shooting up through his thighs – femoral artery to be precise - but he had, sometimes, when he knew that other people would search his arms and feet.

“I’m clean.”, Sherlock said quickly.

Victor chuckled against his neck.

“I know. I could tell if you weren’t. May I dry you off?”, he elaborated his question.

Oh yes, his back was still wet, as was his hair. He hadn’t dried off when he had heard the crash in the kitchen.

Sherlock was almost disappointed, almost, that his friend hadn’t anything else in mind, but he nodded.

Victor tugged the towel off his hips.

They had seen each other naked before, sharing a dorm and bathroom, but Sherlock hadn’t had any scars back then. He hadn’t felt self-conscious. Now Victor only saw his back, but still Sherlock could feel himself blush, which he would definitely deny if someone asked him.

Victor had the towel in his good hand, holding the injured one at shoulder height to keep it from bleeding, while still putting pressure on it with the towel.

Sherlock almost, but not quite, sighed when Victor moved the towel lightly across his back. That was new. Nowadays, even a clap on the shoulder from John or Lestrade made him flinch. No such reactions in Victor’s presence.

“I... I should have been there.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You didn’t know.”

Sherlock could hear Victor’s breath hitch for a moment.

“I did.”, he confessed, his voice bitter with something Sherlock identified as anger mixed with regret. “When I spoke with Mycroft, and he told me you weren’t dead, he had to explain to me what you were doing, because I demanded to see you. The bastard wouldn’t tell me where you were, said you need to do this on your own. It would have been too risky to have me there. I should have insisted. I told him it was too dangerous for you on your own. You never had training, like I did. They could’ve done much worse things to you. Will, they could have killed you. And there was nothing he would let me do to help you. I have never felt so helpless in my life.”

The caresses of the towel had stopped with Victor’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Now Sherlock reached back, clasping his hand over his friend’s.

He hadn’t known that Victor had challenged Mycroft, his brother had never mentioned it before, but he didn’t blame Victor in any way. Without Mycroft’s help, he never would have been able to find him. Victor was good at what he was doing, but if Mycroft and Sherlock decided to work together, even he had no chance.

“It’s okay.”, he whispered because he didn’t trust his voice too much at the moment.

Victor would have come to save him. It hadn’t been his mind making up things, Victor would have really come.

Sherlock bit back tears. Again. How pathetic can one human being become after suffering traumatic events. Another proof that his mind was different now, that it was broken. That he was broken. And who liked broken people? John had made abundantly clear that he found him pathetic and punched his face after he came back. Since then his friend had been treating him like crap, but he supposed he deserved it.

Suddenly Victor’s arms came around him, hugging his back to his friend’s front as the elder buried his face in his neck.

“It’s not okay. Nothing of that was. But I’m here now. I know that doesn’t make up for what happened to you, but…”

Sherlock was seriously fighting tears now. No, he wouldn’t let that happen again. And yet his body forced him to. He had no control over it. And he hated having no control.

“Sherlock.”, he shushed him.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head.

“No?”

“Not from you, never from you.”

“Alright, Will. My _abeille_. My pretty _boucles. Je vous ai manqué. Je suis là. Je ne te quitterai pas_.”

Sherlock knew that, when people were upset or trying to calm somebody down, they would start to babble nonsense, but it felt so good to hear those words.

They stood like this until goose bumps appeared on Sherlock’s arms, and Victor gave a light chuckle.

“Come, put some clothes on, you still need to bandage my hand.”

Sherlock stepped out of Victor’s embrace but he didn’t feel self-conscious in his presence anymore. He walked over to his closet, but did not ask Victor to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dearest readers!  
If you haven't noticed yet, I revisited the first chapter and changed quite a lot of things. - That happens when you change one small detail and then realise it makes the whole story collapse. - So I went over everything again. The chapters are now longer, the scenes more detailed, and also some things have changed. Please do read it again, in order not to be confused about the second chapter now. I apologise for this inconvenience.  
Also good news for you, if you're still having patience with me there :D You will be rewarded. I have this and almost the next chapter ready for posting and it looks like there will be more than the three chapters I originally planned! Rejoice!  
So, enough of me babbling.  
Please enjoy reading. Love all kinds of comments ;)  
x C.

NEW SCOTLAND YARD - NEXT DAY - SHERLOCK

Sherlock and Victor arrived at New Scotland Yard a little earlier than planned.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had invited them to talk with him about the case, at least as much as they were able to talk about. Sherlock himself knew nothing specific as of yet, but apparently Mycroft had it okay-ed to be talked about with Lestrade and himself for now.

Lestrade led them into his office, offering them tea and coffee, which they gladly accepted.

“From what I know, the MI6 is involved in this whole business, right?”

Lestrade looked at Victor, who gave a sharp nod.

“So, I assume that the case is off my back then, and you guys took over?”

“Yes, we will take care of everything. If you could just pass me all the forensic evidence you have gathered so far and any reports and photographs.”

“I will email them to you directly, if that’s fine with you?”

Victor acquiesced and told the DI his secure work email address. Sherlock briefly wondered if it was as “secure” as Mycroft’s programs, and if he would be able to hack into it. He decided to have a try later on, when he was bored, just to annoy Victor a bit.

“You are working with the MI6 now, then?”, Lestrade asked Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

“Obviously.” He sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Someone needs to help them out, when they are out of their depths, not unlike you.”

Greg glanced a bit worriedly at Victor, probably trying to see how someone working for the MI6 would take such a jibe, but the agent stayed calm. His lips twisted in a smile, as he playfully glared at Sherlock.

“We will see who is out of their depth soon enough.”

Lestrade tried to hide his surprise at Victor’s words, although he didn’t do a particularly good job of it. Why was he so surprised? That somebody was finally able to hold a candle to the eccentric detective?

Sherlock accepted the challenge with a small smile himself. He did so love some real competition, and Victor definitely would give him what he had been craving for, for so long.

Poor Lestrade appeared to be in real shock now, his jaw almost hanging open, but he composed himself quickly. Sherlock had to give it to the man, he could be a decent actor with a bit of training.

“I, ah, I assume you know each other already? From before, I mean?”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Obviously.”, but Victor smiled at the DI.

“We met at university. I have been out of the country for quite some time.” He made a gesture that probably should have indicated that this was obvious because of his line of work etc. and Greg nodded, but Sherlock had to resist to roll his eyes once more.

“I would love to hear that story.”, Lestrade exclaimed and Sherlock did roll his eyes. “Since you took the case over, I can spare some time for a quick lunch. Would you like to accompany me?”

“I think we can spare a bit of time. Can’t we, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shot a horrified look at Victor.

“But the case. We need to get on with it. We have no time for lunch. Very sorry, Lestrade.”

Sherlock stood and turned towards the door, but Victor held his sleeve gently between his fingers.

“You have to eat. We can start properly on the case as soon as we leave. An hour won’t make a difference. Then we have the whole next days to just focus on the case.”

Sherlock wasn’t happy about this, he wasn’t, but it was Victor. He would never admit it, but he would do anything for Victor. Just as much as the other would do anything for him. Or would have done. This might be different now for him, but for Sherlock it was still true.

The consulting detective let out a strangled sigh.

“Fine, but no more than an hour.”

“We won’t be, don’t worry.”, Victor assured him and stood himself.

Sherlock was aware of the fact that Lestrade had been watching this whole exchange with a certain amount of amusement on his face, and he was now surely even more interested to find out who Sherlock’s “mysterious” friend was.

CAFE - LATER - VICTOR

Sherlock was tapping away on his phone while Lestrade and Victor ordered their lunch. Victor ordered some tea for Sherlock and chose a dish that his friend would like as well. Just in case. One never knew if the detective might feel like picking off his plate, even when “on a case”.

“How did you guys meet?”, Lestrade spluttered out, apparently unable to keep quiet any longer.

Victor gave a tired smile.

“At university.”, they both answered at the same time.

Sherlock looked up from his phone.

“His dog bit me.”

Victor pretended to be outraged.

“That is not true.” Victor turned towards Lestrade. 

“It is true. I still have the scars on my ankle to prove it.”

Victor turned back again.

“He was defending himself because someone decided it was a good idea to read while walking.”

“Dogs weren’t allowed in the dorm rooms anyways.”

“But you still didn’t care that he was there. You loved Snowball.”

“Please, I hated that piece of fur.”

“Yes? So why were you then snuggling with him when I wasn’t there? You spoiled the little dog rotten, it loved you more than me eventually.”

Victor and Sherlock held each other’s gaze, playfully glaring at each other, both fighting the smile that threatened to spread over their faces.

Suddenly Victor was aware of the fact that they had been ignoring Lestrade all the time. But he just wasn’t able to help himself. It felt like yesterday that he had seen his best friend again, when they were like this. It made him believe that almost no time had passed, that everything was alright. Of course, it wasn’t, but with Sherlock responding like he did, Victor was very hopeful that they were still the friends that they used to be, or better, could be again.

Victor turned back towards a visibly shocked Lestrade, just as their food arrived.

Lestrade used this moment to collect himself.

“You became friends afterwards, I assume?”

Victor nodded.

“Nobody really wanted to share a room with Sherlock, so I kind of adopted him.”

“More like I adopted you.”, murmured Sherlock into his tea, but he had put his phone away and was listening to the conversation.

Victor grinned at him.

“Well, someone had to. You were like a lost puppy.”

“I didn’t need friends.”

“Me neither. I had so many of them.” Victor turned to Lestrade. “I was the popular kid.”

Lestrade seemed to be completely fascinated by the idea of a young Sherlock at university, probably imagining him with the same eccentricities that he had come to associate so well with the consulting detective.

Just as Lestrade opened his mouth once more, no doubt with another question in mind, the door to the small café opened and John Watson entered. He made his way over to their table.

“Hope I’m not too late for the important details?”

Sherlock glared at his tea.

“We haven’t even started on the “important details” yet.”

Lestrade grinned and pulled up a chair for Watson to sit beside him, which, in turn, made Victor have to move closer to Sherlock.  
Watson gave Victor a quick glance that didn’t betray his feelings about him, but Victor was pretty sure he knew what was going on in his head.

Victor himself wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about Watson. Generally, he had seemed like a nice guy from all the stories he wrote about Sherlock and his cases, how he had seemed in awe of his friend’s talents, but what Victor had seen so far, Watson had changed. He was a completely different man now, and he hadn’t changed for the better. Victor didn’t like that he didn’t seem to appreciate Sherlock anymore as he once did. (Here would be a good time to mention that Victor most definitely never, never ever, nu-uh, never, had been jealous of Watson and his close relationship with Sherlock.)

Be that as it may, the way he had seen Watson treat Sherlock yesterday, that just wasn’t okay.

Victor was well aware that Sherlock hadn’t changed much. He didn’t have many friends, and he knew that Watson was important to him – hence why he had just come into this café. Sherlock had called him here for a reason and Victor would try his very best to get along with the doctor. He wasn’t averse to the idea that he could even be something like friends with Watson, but that depended entirely on the man’s treatment of their mutual friend. Should he ever try to harass Sherlock again, Victor wasn’t sure what he would do.

“Actually, we were just hearing a story of how Sherlock and Victor met.”, Lestrade grinned.

Watson smiled, but it was more like somebody smiling at a very annoying person, trying to be polite, but not able to hide that said person was really pissing you off.

Lestrade took a bite of his food, watching Victor.

“So, what happened after you moved in together?”

Victor could see from the corner of his eyes that Watson’s eyes grew big at this statement. He had probably assumed that Victor had used the term “friend” lightly yesterday.

Victor took a tomato on his fork, eating it, before he answered. Sherlock, apparently, was not going to give them many more details about their past, and to be honest, Victor himself wouldn’t tell them much more.

“Not much. We became friends. My other friends resented me for it, so I ditched them, seeing that they never had been true friends after all. Sherlock and I lived together until I finished Uni. We lost contact over the years, as you know it happens when you don’t live in the same city anymore.”

Victor shrugged and ate another piece of his food.

“It’s good to be back though. Somehow I did miss London.”

Victor knew that everybody on the table knew that he didn’t mean to say “London” but no one remarked on it.

Lestrade smiled honestly.

“It’s good to have you here. I never thought I would see Sherlock, well, like this. Your presence seems to be good for him.”

Victor flashed a small grin towards Sherlock, before holding out his fork to him. The detective was really too thin. He had to eat more, and then he had to pick up boxing training again. Victor would teach him some tricks he was sure his friend wasn’t aware of yet. He wanted him to be able to defend himself much better than he was able to do now.

“Oh, Sherlock doesn’t eat on cases.”, Watson stated with something like satisfaction in his voice, as Victor held out the fork to Sherlock.

However, just as he was saying that, Sherlock reached out, taking the fork from Victor’s grasp and stealing a piece of food from his plate.

Victor just rose an eyebrow at Watson. So he had never been able to make Sherlock eat through cases. That was a slight relief to Victor, although he would never admit to it. It just showed that Sherlock and Watson had never been as close as the both of them had been. Although Victor hadn’t been there to help Sherlock when it really had been important, and that still pained him much more than he would ever admit.

“Alright, so what’s going on with the case now?”, Watson quickly asked, as he watched Sherlock take small pieces of vegetables from Victor’s plate.

“It’s not our case anymore.”, Lestrade said shrugging. “It’s to do with the…” He paused and looked at Victor, who just gave him a sharp nod.

“It is the MI6’s case now.”, Victor continued for him. 

Watson frowned.

“So, Sherlock and I aren’t needed anymore?”

Victor glance sideways at Sherlock, who had stopped eating.

“Not precisely. Doctor Watson, I’m sure you understand that the MI6 is a top-secret organisation, with the most competent agents in Britain. Therefore, you won’t be allowed to take any note, nor publish anything about the case at all. You will both need to sign a contract for the duration of this case, which will include, that, if you should be making any information about the case known to a member of public, you will go to jail for the rest of your lives.”

Watson’s eyes have grown in size by now, but Victor continued.

“Should you choose to work with me on the case.” Now he looked at Sherlock. “I will be in charge. You will take my word for whatever I say, because I am familiar with the kind of work and enemies we are involved with. There will be no running off on your own, no reckless decisions. We cannot afford that in our line of work. Should something go wrong, this will result in death.”

Watson swallowed once, but Victor could see in his eyes that he would not back down from a case like this. This was excitement, this was the thrill you only got when you went to war, which Doctor Watson was, after all, familiar with. This was the kind of cases he had wanted in the first place when he had started to work with Sherlock.

Victor would have preferred not to have him active on the case, but Sherlock had invited him here today, which meant that his friend still intended to work with him, and he would obey that wish. After all, Mycroft had had issued a special permission for both of them.

Victor turned back to Sherlock, who seemed oddly… bothered by the whole speech Victor had just given. The agent had only tried to intimidate Watson a little, less through the facts about the sensitivity of the case, but more in the way of authority over them. If Watson had been in the military, he would know how to obey orders, and if Victor established that he was on the top, there would be no arguing about anything during their time working together.

Sherlock, however, was a different case. He definitely wasn’t afraid that the case could be too dangerous. Sherlock wouldn’t back off from such an opportunity, although it wasn’t so much the thrill of the chase for him, as the mystery of the puzzle. He wanted to discover the secrets around the dead man, and Victor could provide him now with these and he could solve the case.

There was something off in Sherlock’s eyes though, something Victor had never seen before. Maybe Sherlock had hidden it too well, who knew, maybe it was new, but it was an expression Victor couldn’t read. And he didn’t like it one bit. He was able to read Sherlock like an open book, that clearly hadn’t changed with time, but this look. The other two men on their table clearly hadn’t seen anything unusual in Sherlock’s behaviour, so Victor let it slide. For now.

“Are you still willing to join me?”

Watson nodded.

“I am.”

Sherlock cleared his throat very briefly before he looked back up at Victor again.

“Let’s not pretend you don’t need the help.”

Victor grinned.

“As I said, we’ll see who needs help in the end.”

“The game is on.”, Sherlock said quietly, without taking his eyes off Victor.

“When you’re quite done eye-fucking each other…”, Watson grumbled.

Sherlock hurriedly looked away from Victor, who glared at Watson.

Lestrade took the last sip of his coffee.

“Now I’m kind of jealous that I won’t be able to join this case. It sounds like fun.”, he sarcastically remarked, but Victor knew that he, just like Watson, was in it for the thrill, at least partially. Otherwise he wouldn’t have become a police officer in a city like London.

BAKER STREET - LATER - SHERLOCK

Sherlock had closed the curtains in the living room, as well as in the kitchen. They sat in the dark during this dreary London afternoon, with the lamps in their flat on. It felt warm, but not stiflingly so, which was helpful when one tried to think.

Tried to think. That had been a problem lately, hadn’t it? Sherlock would rather die than admit it to anybody, but he had been not in his best form since he had come back. Obviously, Victor had seen a part of his damaged mind now, but that was only a small extend of what was still hiding in there. Apart from the nightmares and the flashbacks – it obviously wasn’t PTSD because he would never suffer from anything so mundane – there were other things. Things that bothered him more than he would have liked.

Sherlock was never one to have any doubts in himself and his abilities. He had been self-conscious, quite badly actually, when he had met Victor, which was due to the fact that his deductions and corrections had never been accepted by people and he had decided that it was better if he didn’t say anything at all. Victor had changed this. Victor had encouraged him to be himself, no matter what others thought. He had warned him to be careful to say the wrong things to the wrong people, but generally just told Sherlock to be able to run fast enough and to be able to defend himself, should he accidently offend the wrong people. So Sherlock had started boxing. He had loved it. There was so much he could do with his ability before his opponent even had a chance to think about the next move they were going to make. Needless to say, Sherlock had easily exceeded in boxing.

Now, Sherlock found himself doubting in his own mind. It always had been the best thing about him, and now it was deteriorating quicker than he would have ever thought possible.

What Moriarty had done to him, the whole public shaming, calling him a liar, making people doubt in him, keeping them and their cases away from him even after he had returned only months earlier, that had been harder than on him than he would have ever thought.

Sherlock usually never cared what people talked about him, but they still had come to him with their cases. Now, they would not even look at him when passing. They would take their children to the opposite side of the street, when he happened to walk their way. His whole reputation, the one he had worked so hard for, was gone. Even most detectives, constables, etc. in New Scotland Yard would not trust him anymore. Therefore, he barely had had work since he came back.

Lestrade had called him once or twice on some random case, mostly out of pity than of real need for him, and he had solved the case in a matter of minutes, then and there. Apart from that, nothing.

Sherlock had desperately tried to think of something to occupy his mind. He had read multiple books, had analysed, once more, soil samples from the banks of the Thames, but nothing had kept him from this terrible boredom.

Eventually he had gone out, one night, in search of some old acquaintances. He had found them, and he had purchased something off them, which he had sworn to Mycroft to never take again. He had gone home, put the little package containing the white power in front of him, and had stared at it for the better part of the night.

Then he had taken it, put it under the loose floorboard underneath his bed, and had gone to bed.

The package of cocaine was still where he had left it, but it called to him. It called to him every day he was bored out of his mind. He then would go, take it, and look at it for as long as he could take it. Then he would go and put it away again.

He wasn’t entirely sure what the reason was, that he hadn’t taken it yet. Now, it was clear. He wouldn’t take it when Victor was here. He wouldn’t disappoint him like this. Also, he wasn’t bored when Victor was here.

The boredom of the last weeks had changed him, though. Before Lestrade had called him out on that particular murder case, Sherlock had barely changed out of his pyjamas. He had been a very poor eater, even for his normal circumstances, and had had a drink on more nights than not.

He had started to watch TV, which was really unusual for him. Not anything specific, just some crappy BBC series and documentaries, not even bothering to look for something that might interest him.

Besides being bored, watching TV and doing nothing, his mind had suffered. It had slowed down to a pace Sherlock was afraid of. He pretended to be his usual cocky self, but deep down he worried. He worried that he would not be able to solve the case, to contribute anything vital, that Victor would be disappointed in him. 

Victor. He would find out that Sherlock wasn’t the genius anymore that he once had been, and he would leave again. He would never speak a word to Sherlock again, and he wasn’t sure if he could survive that. Two years ago, Sherlock would have laughed at himself for such a pathetic thought, but now it was different. His mind was different. He had faced death and escaped it sometimes before, but this time it all had been different. Without his mind, he was nothing. If Victor would leave then again as well, that would be it. He would have nothing left in his life. Nothing but to really take the whole contents of the small package in his room, and wait for blissful darkness to envelope him.

BAKER STREET - VICTOR

Sherlock was well aware of the fact that Victor watched him, as he sat down on the chair beside him, but didn’t say anything.

He always had been the only person who could read him like an open book. At first, it had annoyed Sherlock a great deal, but then he had come to find it fascinating. Having someone understand him, someone who had similar abilities to himself, it was refreshing. Victor was the only person whose mind could rival his. Not even Moriarty had been on the level Victor was on. Should the secret agent decide to change sides, Sherlock wasn’t sure he would be able to outsmart him.

But that was out of the question anyways. Victor would never work against him, although they might not be as close anymore as they once were. (Sherlock would never admit out loud that he wished for nothing more though.)

Sherlock purposefully did not look towards Victor. The case was important now. His own “mental health” as people liked to dub it nowadays, had to wait. Sherlock hoped, that whatever was wrong with it, would get better when he had something to focus on again.

John was seated on the sofa, facing the two men on the chairs. He was eyeing Victor weirdly. Sherlock assumed it was because Victor had taken over his chair, but the detective couldn’t care less. It was just a seat after all, and they could fight over it another time. He did not care for any disputes those two had. They had a case to solve. For everything else they would still have time once everything was sorted.

Victor opened a file he had, presumably, received from Mycroft.

“The victim was called Richard Avery, although he went by the alias André Brooks at the moment.”

Sherlock twitched briefly at the mention of the names. Was someone playing a cruel trick on him? Sherlock scolded himself for such a stupid thought. It was pure coincidence. The names “Richard” and “Brooks” were quite common.

The consulting detective knew that Victor had realised his slip-up, as he liked to call it, but again didn’t say anything. Victor didn’t even pause in his speech.

“He was undercover, as you already know, and just came back from an assignment. He was in Bucharest, working on a case. After he successfully completed it-“

“What case was he working on?”, John threw in.

Sherlock closed his eyes. It wasn’t important what he had been working on, otherwise they would have gotten the information. Victor probably knew.

“Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to disclose this information, Doctor Watson, but if you would let me finish the brief, I will still tell you all the necessary information.”, Victor said sternly.

John didn’t say anything, but Sherlock was sure, even with his eyes closed, that he was throwing Victor an angry look.

“As I mentioned before, he came back from the assignment and decided to stay the night in London before travelling on to see his family. “

Victor rustled with his papers.

“Before I go on, I have to inform you on some important insider information regarding our procedures. If an agent is sent out for a mission, no matter how harmless it may seem, they will be tailed by at least two other individual agents, who will ensure that they will not be tailed by someone else, found out, or even endangered. The procedure saved many an agent’s family already, and obviously the agent themselves. In this case, Mr Avery was tailed by another agent, who kept track on the people on the opposite side of the ones who Mr Avery was working with.”

“If I get that right, he was working with some of the bad guys, but there were guys even worse after those bad guys, and they wanted to kill him?”

“If it helps you to see it like this, then yes, there were “lots of bad guys”. The agent, who was tailing Mr Avery, I found out yesterday morning when I arrived in London, has disappeared. We assume he has been taken by “the worse guys”.”

“But if the worse guys were after the bad guys, then they would have been happy to see a secret agent destroying their whatever.”

Sherlock opened his eyes.

“No necessarily.”, he said before Victor could open his mouth to answer. “We don’t know what he had been doing there, and surely they wouldn’t have known either. They just would have assumed, because they are the “worse guys”.” He actually made quotation marks in the air. “He was trying to infiltrate those bad guys with some information about them, so they had a chance to attack them. They would try to kill each other and no one else would have had any official involvement in it. The British Government obviously had its reasons for wanting both sides destroyed and they would have just needed to watch. No one would have ever suspected anything else than a typical rivalry between gangs.”

Victor gave a slight smile in his direction.

“They wouldn’t care which side the agent was on, they would have wanted him eliminated anyways. No one else had any mingling in their business to do but themselves. We still don’t know how they found out about Mr Avery being an agent though. They must have taken the other agent on their sides first, which doesn’t explain though why they didn’t kill him in Bucharest, where crimes like this can go unnoticed, believe me, but why they waited for him to come back to London. “

“Maybe they wanted to attack his family as well?”, John suggested.

“Unlikely. If they knew his alias identity, which they would have needed to track him back to England, then they would have, most likely, been able to find out his real identity. Especially if they kidnapped the other agent and torture him.”

_Whip._

_Blood._

_Cold._

_Whip._

_Skin breaking._

_Slash._

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Blood dripping._

_Wet._

Victor’s hand on his arm brought him back to reality once more. He realised that his friend was talking to John, the latter so occupied that he hadn’t even realised that Sherlock had gone away.

The consulting detective put his other hand briefly over Victor’s and squeezed it, telling him he was alright again.

Sherlock zoned back in as Victor subtly removed his hand once more.

“...however, if their plan was a different one, then it’s on us to find that out.”

“What you’re saying is that they could still be here in London? What are they waiting for?”

Victor shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe they want revenge on all agents that were ever undercover in Bucharest.”

Sherlock stapled his fingers together.

“It wasn’t the first time that the British Government made them go to “war” like this.”

“They most likely found out from the agent they kidnapped.”

“Aren’t you agents supposed to be trained for those cases?”, John asked.

Victor looked at him slightly confused, so he continued.

“Don’t you have any training in case you get tortured? That you go somewhere in your mind or so?”

Victor’s whole behaviour got very tense and he sat up straight.

Sherlock was, once more fighting his own memories - how pathetic he had become. But he focused on Victor, and could actually keep himself from going, unwillingly, to that dark place for now.

"Dr Watson, I do not know what you might have heard about "us", but we are not machines, against contrary belief, apparently. We do feel pain like everybody else. Yes, there are special torture trainings we have to go through, in order to qualify for this job, the reality however, is completely different. No one and nothing can really prepare you for what it's like when they try to rip your body apart, piece by piece. When your mind just tries to escape to make the pain stop, the pain though at the same time is the thing that brings it back, over and over. They won't let you pass out, no, they are too good at what they are doing. Your mind starts to go crazy, bit by bit. You loose yourself. And then, you will talk. They just need to be a bit patient, because, Dr Watson, every person is breakable, no matter how much they seem to be able to endure, and after months, you will gladly talk, just to make it stop, no matter how."

Victor's eyes had turned the colour of a raging snowstorm. If you looked closely enough, you could feel the icy snowflakes cutting your skin. Even John backed up a bit, moving farther back into the sofa.

The flat was deadly quiet.

Sherlock was shaking. This couldn’t be. No, he was misreading the signs. This wasn’t true. Not his Victor.

_The whip._

_Blood._

_Stinging pain._

_Laughter._

_Rough Russian voices._

_Cold._

_Pain._

_Pain._

_Pain. Pain. Pain._

_So much pain._

Abruptly, Sherlock sprang up and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door, still half lost in his memories, half terrified by reality.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't work the case. He should have known he wouldn't be able to. And now this. Victor as well. This was all so wrong. This all should never have happened. Not to him, not to Victor. 

He had been in this blasted dungeon for what, two weeks? Victor had been wherever he had been for months. How was he still sane? How had he survived? And why had Sherlock never gotten word of where he had been and what had happened?

He laid down on his bed, trying to even out his too fast breathing. This all was a nightmare. If he could just go to sleep, he would wake up tomorrow morning, realising that nothing of it was real. No Moriarty, no Fall, no torture, no... Victor.

BAKER STREET - VICTOR

Victor could have slapped himself. How could he do that to Will? He had known, seen, in what a bad mental state his friend was, how fragile, and yet he had, totally inconsiderably, given a speech, that would have given nightmares to someone without their experiences. For Will, it must have been like a flashback and pulled out memories he didn't knew he had anymore.

Victor rubbed his palm across his face, sinking back into his chair.

"What just happened?", Watson asked.

Victor shook his head.

"If you haven't realised by now, then I won't explain. I'm sorry."

The agent was annoyed that Watson liked to call himself Will's friend, and yet didn't see the most obvious change in his behaviour. He last had seen Will years and years ago, but he had realised immediately that something was off.

"I'll go and see to him." Watson stood and walked off in the direction of Sherlock's room.

Victor saw no point in protesting. They were friends after all and Sherlock seemed to have forgiven him the slip-up of yesterday evening. He was pretty sure, that the last person the detective wanted to see now, was himself. 

He debated with himself whether he should just up and leave, but he decided against it. For now.

Watson came back after a couple of minutes, shaking his head.

"He doesn't even answer me. Don't even bother when he's like that. He won't come out for hours now." He took his jacket, putting it on. "If you wouldn't mind calling me, when he is done with his tantrum, so we can proceed?"

Victor started on a reply, but Watson didn't even bother to wait for it. He left the flat, slamming the door behind himself.

How could he do that to his friend? Could he not see how bad Sherlock was doing? That he desperately needed a friend right now? Suddenly Victor was glad that he hadn't left yet.

Unfortunately, he remembered vividly enough the time when he had been in Sherlock's place. How he had longed for someone to be there, to help him through it, other than a professional psychiatrist, who was helpful, but detached. It had been very difficult to be alone, after months in a dark cellar, always living with the fear someone would come and snatch him up to bring him back down there. He hadn't slept properly in months.

Slowly Victor rose from his seat, walking towards the door of Sherlock's bedroom. He tried to walk as loudly as possible without stomping, so Sherlock could hear him, prepare himself for his arrival.

At the door, Victor gently knocked, waiting for an answer. When none came, he knocked again.

"Will, it's me."

Victor pressed his ear against the door, listening. He did not want to enter Sherlock's sanctum without permission. That was something very inconsiderate to do, especially after what he had been through. He should feel safe in his own room, and not like everybody could barge in as they liked.

Suddenly, a soft whimpering "Victor" could be heard from within, and the agent was through the door faster, than a normal person could comprehend.

Sherlock was curled up in foetal position on his bed, his body trembling slightly.

Victor carefully sat on the bed, close but not too close. He remembered how he had used to lash out at people who tried to touch him during his attacks. He wasn’t so much scared for himself but for Sherlock, who he would then need to force into submission lest he hurt himself.

“Will. I’m here. It’s alright.”

Sherlock whimpered.

“It’s not alright. It never was. It never will be.”

Victor took a deep breath.

“The scars that we bear, we will bear forever, but they will heal, I promise you that.”

Suddenly Sherlock sat up, turning towards Victor, glaring at him.

“You’ve been capture and tortured and I didn’t know! There was no hospital record, nothing on your file. You could have...” Sherlock’s voice broke. “You could’ve...” It broke again on the next try.

Victor looked at his hands.

“So, could you have. I was so upset when I found out about what you did.”

Now he himself was on the verge of crying. For God’s sake, they were both grown men. On the other hand, he couldn’t blame either of them. They had been through so much.

“What happened?”, Sherlock whispered.

Victor sighed. Then he toed off his shoes slowly, buying time. He hadn’t talked about it since he had stopped his session with his psychiatrist. Even then he hadn’t felt like talking about it. It had been mandatory to go to the psychiatrist, and he had given him some medication to make it easier for him to sleep and try to go about his day.

Eventually, when it wasn’t required any longer, he had stopped the sessions, despite the recommendation of his psychiatrist and had decided that he would never talk about it anymore. That had been before he had known that he would see Sherlock again. Of course, the detective would want to know what he had been up to and he would have, sooner or later, figured it out on his own, without Victor letting it slip as gracelessly as he had done.

The agent scooted up on the bed, leaning against the headboard while Sherlock turned towards him, sitting now cross-legged beside him.

Victor still didn’t manage to look him into the eyes as he slowly started to tell his story.

“I was undercover in Russia. It was a delicate mission, but it wasn’t classified as particularly dangerous. I went there, well prepared, and I knew exactly what I was doing. It dragged out a bit too long, but patience is a very important virtue in our job, as you very well know yourself.” Victor realised that he was babbling and trying to get away from the topic. He scolded himself internally. It was just Sherlock he was talking to!

“I... I almost had all the information I needed, but one last task was still outstanding. The most dangerous of all, because I would need to break into their main hideaway. It was planned carefully and I have done similar things so often, that I saw no problems at all with it.  
I got in, but there were no expected guards. It was all too easy. It was stupid of me not to think that it would be a trap, but I had been on this mission for so long, that I just wanted to finish it and get the hell out of there.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. They caught me by surprise, which shouldn’t have been a surprise at all, and they took me away immediately. There were too many for me to deal with. They sedated me, and that was that.

I knew that the MI6 knew that I had been taken, because I was under supervision by one of my colleagues. However, the Russians knew that as well. They moved me to a secret dungeon, not known to the MI6 of yet, so they would obviously need more time to find me.  
In the meantime, I was trapped and well, you can imagine what happened.”

Victor buried his face in his hands for a moment, before continuing.

“They tortured me to get information about the British. I didn’t talk, not a word, but now, thinking back, I’m not sure if it was worth it. The price I paid, was too high.”

Victor stopped as Sherlock gripped his hand tightly, and for the first time since he had entered this room, he looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“You did the right thing. You survived. You are stronger than most men and women out there.”, Sherlock spoke quietly.

Victor shook his head once in desperation.

“But was it worth it? The nightmares? The sleepless nights? The episodes not unlike your own?”

Sherlock squeezed his hand tightly.

“Although I hate was has become of me, I do not regret that I went away to destroy Moriarty’s network. Because I know, they eventually would have found a lead to you, and I don’t know what I would have done if they would have as much as touched you.”

Victor’s eyes shone wetly as he stared at Sherlock.

“I would have done the same, you know. If I would have known that Moriarty sent his whole network after you and the people important to you, I would have killed every single one for you.”

Victor pulled his hand back, clenching both into fists.

“I’ve killed people, Will, more than I would like to admit to. I had to, but that doesn’t make a difference. I should have never accepted the job when your brother offered it to me.”

Sherlock watched Victor for a moment, probably contemplating what to do with this information. Victor was aware of the fact that Sherlock didn’t take well to people who killed other people, no matter what side they were on.

“So did I.”, he quietly confessed. “I couldn’t destroy Moriarty’s network with words alone, I’m afraid. There was a lot of digital stuff to be destroyed, that’s true, but sometimes you had to destroy the brain, so they would never be able to rebuild what they once had. I had to destroy the information with the people. I had to. Do you think less of me now?”

Victor looked up, surprised.

“Of course not!”

Sherlock held his gaze.

“Then why do you think that I would think less about you now? I knew what your job entailed the minute you told me about it. I knew that you were too much like me to decline it.”

“But you did.”

Sherlock smiled sadly.

“To despise my brother. I knew I could make a decent life as a consulting detective here in London. There are enough mysterious murders on a daily basis to keep me halfway occupied. However, I would have probably considered taking the job, if my brother wouldn’t have been involved with it.”

Victor blinked a few times, contemplating his words.

“I also knew that you had to get away.”

Sherlock smiled sadly at him, but Victor frowned. That was news to him.

“What do you mean?”

BAKER STREET - SHERLOCK

Sherlock rubbed his face. He was fucking this up, royally. Victor had never felt for him what he had felt for his friend. They had always loved each other in a very strange way, but Victor never had had that romantic, if you so will, interest in him that he had had. Or still had, to be precise, but that was a topic to mull over for a different time.

“I knew that you… That you didn’t…” Want me. “Want to be friends with me anymore after I started using drugs. Your record was immaculate and you just couldn’t afford to be seen with me. You had to get away.”

Sherlock shrugged and smiled, and again said smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“But I understand, Victor. I forgave you long ago.”

Victor was stunned into silence for a moment. His eyebrows were so high up his forehead, that Sherlock thought they might disappear in the wheat-coloured fringe of his.

“Will. Is that what you thought all these years? That I left you because you took drugs?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to frown.

“_Abeille_, I _never_ would have done that to you. I loved you with all your quirks and habits, no matter how weird. I wouldn’t have stayed and helped you after your rehab, if I didn’t. I wouldn’t have checked in with your brother as often as I could to make sure you were fine. He didn’t spy on you just for his sake.”

Sherlock was trying to find some words, but they died because he could even try to speak them.

“I went away, because…” Victor hesitated. “I really wanted this job, you know. As you said, I’m too much like you. We need the thrill, the mystery, puzzles to solve. Our minds are faster, better than the ones of regular, boring people.”

They shared a private smile. They used to talk like this about their classmates way too often.

“But I… I had to go, because…” Victor hesitated again. “Will, do you really want me to say this? I just got you back and I don’t want things to get awkward between us. I want you back as my best friend.”

Sherlock nodded.

“We used to tell each other everything, remember? I think it’s time we start doing it again.”

Victor huffed.

“Yeah, there was this one thing, that I didn’t tell you back then either. I… Will, I loved you. Always. Never actually stopped.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I know.”

Victor shook his head.

“No, not like this. But I wanted…” Victor swallowed. “More.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. No. This couldn’t be true. This was not real. Victor, the same Victor he had thought would, could, never feel for him the way he felt for his friend, had always wanted him the way he had wanted him? This was a cruel joke of the universe. All that time that they could have had together. All that secret admiring, the hours in a locked bathroom which still made him blush when he thought about them, everything could have been different?

“See, I told you it wasn’t a good idea to tell you. It’s alright. I don’t blame you.”

Victor smiled sadly.

“I’ll probably just go back to the hotel and-“

Sherlock grabbed Victor’s hand in a tight grip.

“I’m surprised, but not in a bad way, because, you must know, I…” Sherlock tried to phrase this right. He wasn’t good with words and he was even worse with feelings. “What you said. All of it.” Sherlock made a gesture with his hand towards Victor. “It’s the same. For me, I mean. I wanted to… always. I mean, I do… love… you as well. Did. Do. I mean, I did but I still…-“

Suddenly Victor broke out into a huge grin, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

“It’s alright Will, I understand. I just… I never knew. If I had known…”

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Yes, same here.”

They both stared at each other a bit awkwardly. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now. They had just realised all this, but they still hadn’t seen each other in years. They had so much to learn again, so much to discover. They had changed, for better as well as worse. They had things to catch up on, things to speak about. They were just learning to be friends again, which was not particularly difficult, but still, it was new and fragile nonetheless.

Victor took all decisions from him, when he pulled him into a tight hug.

“I think we both have a lot of things to think about now.”, he whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

The detective hugged him back, shifting into a more comfortable position beside him.

“Don’t leave.”

Victor smiled as Sherlock buried his face in his neck.

“I won’t.”

Sherlock’s thoughts raced but at the same time they felt like he was trapped in a loop, going over the same thing again and again. He felt himself grow sleepy, but he didn’t move, didn’t realise that his thoughts slowly drifted off and became dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi people :)  
I had this ready for a while, but I didn't have the time to beta read it, which I usually do a couple of times. There might still be some mistakes in there, which I haven't found, because, as mentioned before, I had no time to re-read it, but I didn't want to keep you any longer.  
If you find something really concerning, please let me know. I'll go over it myself again and will change any mistakes I find in the next few days (hopefully).  
Please enjoy though :)

BAKER STREET - NEXT MORNING - VICTOR

When Victor woke, he realised two things immediately. One, he had slept for quite a while, as the morning had dawned a long while ago, a few sunrays coming in through the gap in the curtain. Two, he wasn’t in his hotel room.

Slightly confused he looked around. He was used to waking in new places every day of the week, if he had to, but he wasn’t on an undercover mission right now. He was back in London. London. Will.

Only now Victor realised the weight on his shoulder, the breath ghosting his neck. He was an extremely light sleeper. How had he not realised that earlier? Being in his job, it paid off that you would wake at every slight movement, every creak of a floorboard, every tap of rain on the window, but last night he had not realised that Sherlock had slept beside him. Still did.

Victor carefully turned his head to look at his sleeping friend. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, because it was buried in his neck, but the tousled curls on his friend’s head made him smile.

He was probably still used to sleeping side by side with Will. That’s why his body hadn’t reacted and woken if the man had turned in his sleep. His scent was still the same, and Victor felt safe with Sherlock. 

Slowly, as not to disturb the detective sleeping on his shoulder, he turned to look at his face. He looked so much younger, so much more like the boy he used to know so many years ago, when he was like this; peaceful, no worries apart from his latest experiment. It could never be like this, Victor knew that, but maybe different was good for them. Maybe different would be what would keep them together this time.

Victor realised that they fell asleep still fully clothes, which wasn't the most comfortable, especially for him since he had no change of clothes in Sherlock's flat. The thought that Sherlock might let him borrow one of his shirts, sent thrills to him for an unknown reason. Well, not so much unknown, as he wouldn't let himself ponder too much about it. Feelings were not their priority at the moment. They could get in the way of the case right now. Victor wondered if it wasn't already too late for that though.

The man beside him stirred and blinked his eyes open slowly. Confusion was clearly written all across his face as his gaze met Victor's, so the latter smiled and tightened the arm he had around Sherlock's back.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Sherlock just glared at him and buried his face once more in Victor's neck.

The spy laughed good-naturedly.

"Still not a morning person if you manage to sleep?"

Sherlock shook his head but didn't move.

"I thought having a case has you on your feet in no time at all?"

The detective stiffened and suddenly Victor realised that this had been the wrong thing to say.

There was clearly something different, something off about Sherlock, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it yet. He should really think more before he spoke! This was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that he had managed to hurt Sherlock with his words. He mentally kicked himself for being such an idiot.

"I just... I meant..."

Sherlock suddenly sat up, raking a hand through his messy curls. Victor followed his example, looking about as lost as he felt. Maybe he didn't understand Sherlock as well as he had thought anymore.

"You're right. We've got work to do."

The detective slid off the bed and towards the door.

"Will. I didn't mean to throw you out of bed like this. If you want to..."

But the detective was already out the door and all Victor could hear was him closing the bathroom door behind himself.

Victor let himself fall back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands. He was such an idiot.

BAKER STREET - LATER - VICTOR

A few hours later found them both in front of their laptops. Victor, now wearing one of Sherlock's wider shirts which still fit a little too snugly around his muscular body, was trying to hack into Avery’s personal email account, which shouldn't have been a problem in and on itself, but somehow the man had been about as paranoid as Victor himself was, and therefore it was encrypted times ten. Victor knew he did it himself, because he had done the same to his accounts once he started working for Mycroft, however Avery appeared to have been somewhat better at it, and now Victor found himself faced with a greater puzzle than he had expected in the first place.

Sherlock was typing away on his phone almost simultaneously to his typing on his laptop. His hair was still somewhat messy and a little damp from his shower.

He hasn't said anything so far since he had rushed off to take a shower. Victor wanted to apologise, but he knew it wouldn't lead him anywhere. Sherlock would brush it off, or not even react to it.

The secret agent sighed and rubbed his palm over his face.

This new situation plus the case were a lot to take in at the same time. Victor wasn't sure what to feel right now. He was confused. His brain was a mess since he had seen Sherlock again, only days ago. The detective had, once more, turned his whole life upside down, without even noticing.

LATER

But at the moment he had no time to focus on anything but the case. They would eventually sort out their relationship, but this time was not now.

Avery's private email account didn't turn out to be very valuable, once Victor managed to get into it. It had only taken him bloody hours!

Victor closed his laptop, maybe a bit too forceful, and put it aside, rubbing his eyes. He was tired, his mind slower than he liked it to be. He was used to lengthy cases, sometimes going weeks without proper sleep, but on these cases, he was usually running on adrenaline. As soon as there was boring office stuff to be done, preparing the case, his body automatically demanded more rest in preparation of the case to come.

Victor also suffered from insomnia, not all the time, but when it hit him, then he was lucky to get a couple of hours sleep at night. Last night he had slept, thankfully, but with so many things on his mind, this would change rapidly now, he knew it.

Sherlock was still typing something on his laptop, not even acknowledging Victor.

Suddenly there were footsteps on the stairs. Victor looked up, waiting for the knock on the door, which never came.

John Watson barged in through the door as if he still lived here.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his laptop, although he flinched a little as the door closed a bit too forceful behind the doctor.

Victor watched Dr Watson take in the scene for a moment. He was aware that he sat in, what had to have been previously, the doctor's chair. According to John's look, this assumption was correct, however he couldn't care less. Watson was definitely not his priority at the moment.

"I tried to close the practice early, but no such luck."

He sat down upon the sofa, looking from Victor to Sherlock, who still hadn't looked up from his laptop.

"So, what's going on? Any new developments?"

Victor adjusted in his chair and kept watching Watson, chose, however, to say nothing.

They typing from beside him eventually stopped and Sherlock looked up.

"Indeed." Sherlock closed his laptop now as well. 

Victor looked at him, expectantly. He didn't doubt that the detective was more than capable of figuring out things on his own, however that he was faster in digging something up than Victor, made the spy cringe. Mind you, not in a bad way, more like his little friend had finally grown up and was able to best him at something. It made his heart ache for the times when they used to play investigations and Victor had always been faster than Sherlock with his deductions and solutions. But that was a topic for another time or sleepless nights. Now he had to focus on the case and what Sherlock had possibly found out.

"The agents, who have been involved in any activities whatsoever in Bucharest in the past twenty years." Sherlock turned towards Victor. "Their names leaked."

"You mean... all of their information?"

"I'm afraid so. I was able to enter the government platform..." Clearly Sherlock was talking about the high security data base, which he could only be able to enter if he hacked it. "And if I was able to do it, someone else must have been able to do it as well. I checked the access control on the system, which is not a secret either." Victor knew it was very well protected, but if someone really tried, it must have been possible to access it. "Whoever accessed it, they managed to conceal their identity quite well, because no one so far has realised what is going on. They weren't on it for long. They didn't do any damage either. The only thing they took..."

Sherlock picked up his phone once more and sent a text message to Victor and John.

"...was a list of people who have been involved in keeping the crime "in Bucharest in Bucharest" and lead the crime lords there in circles, going against each other, as we established yesterday already. Now, I believe, they are working their way through the list they obtained, starting with the most recent, and going back about twenty years, more or less."

Victor hadn't looked at the list on his phone yet, whereas John was eagerly scrolling through the names.

Sherlock's eyes locked on Victor's.

"You think they will try to kill each of these people?"

"Only them in the best case. In the worst, their families and friends as well. They have their names; they can find them if they are not undercover on a mission at the moment. But they all have one thing in common; they always come back to England. It's their home base and sooner or later they will be here again. The ones hunting them have people in powerful places, as it looks like, they will find them and eliminate them. That's why they waited until he was back in England. They wanted to send a message. They wanted the MI6 to know it was them. They wanted their revenge and they won't stop until they get it. They must have been planning this for years. They are well organised and careful."

John's gaze jumped between Victor and Sherlock, who still had their gazes locked on each other. Victor realised his uneasiness radiating towards them, but he was focussed on Sherlock, who didn't display any reaction on his face, yet.

"So, we need to organise for Mycroft to protect them. He can put them into safety, right?"

"Did you have a look at the list?", Victor asked. "There must be well over hundred names on the list, and that's only the agents. Include all of their families, friends. That would add up to well over thousands of people who need protection. And we don't even know who they will target."

"If we knew the order in which they will operate.", Sherlock stated. "Then we might have a chance to predict who will be next and protect them, but otherwise, there is only one thing we can do. We have to find them and stop them."

"And we will.", Victor promised.

Now Sherlock's eyes darkened for the fraction of a second, displaying pain that made Victor feel sick to his gut, but he had no comforting words for him right now.

"Will you stop staring at each other? This is rather creepy.", John mumbled as he went back to scrolling through the list.

And then he stopped dead in his movement, his head lifting once more.

"This isn't true, is it? Because if it is..." John jumped up, but didn't make a move towards either man. "You just signed Sherlock's death toll as well!"

Victor knew that. He knew that his name was on the list, years back, but still, it was there. And therefore, they would know by now of his association of Sherlock, he was sure of it. Not the least because they were both working on the case.

"We just have to be faster than them.", Sherlock said and finally looked away from Victor, who practically deflated. If he had known that, then he wouldn't have come back to the country. Not for himself, but for Sherlock. Looking at it the other way though, there was no guarantee that Sherlock would have been save otherwise, because he was called in to work on the case before Victor. Maybe Mycroft could have managed to keep him safe, but knowing the detective, he wouldn't have let go of the case either way. It wasn't a comfort at all, but Victor tried to convince himself, that at least he was here now to keep an eye on Sherlock. He wasn't sure if this would be enough, if he himself wouldn't end up with a slashed throat somewhere in a dark alley, but he had no choice. Protecting Sherlock was more important than his own life.

"Sherlock and I are working together now. We have a chance of getting to them before they get to us.", Victor agreed.

"But if they know that? They might come after you sooner than you think. And what then?"

None of them had an answer for John, but they both knew that they would protect each other with everything they had.

BAKER STREET - EVENING - SHERLOCK

Sherlock toyed with the food on his plate. He wasn't hungry, but he knew that Victor wanted him to eat a few bites. He wasn't wrong. He knew he should eat, even when he was on cases, because especially now it cost him a lot of energy to stay upright and awake most days without a case already. Today his mind had been working overtime, something, he wasn't really used to anymore. He felt drained of every last bit of energy in his body, his head throbbing at a steady pace.

Again the hidden stash of cocaine came to his mind, but he would never ever dare that with Victor being here. Although Victor had sworn that he hadn't left him because he had been taking drugs, because he had overdosed, but Sherlock knew that Victor would be very disappointed in him if he fell back into old habits now. He had been sober for quite a long time now. Mycroft thought that he had been taking something only a few years back, but in truth Sherlock had been sober for eight years. Before that, there had been smaller relapses, but only one overdose. The one Victor knew about. The one Victor came back for to be with him.

It was true that he always had a hidden emergency stash in his flat, which was probably the main reason why Mycroft thought that he still was using now and then, but every time they had found anything in his flat, the package had been as full as at the time he had bought it. Only sometimes he would use a little cocaine for experiments if he was really bored. He had considered starting to make his own, but had dismissed that thought quickly, as he didn't want to get the reputation of being a drug dealer on top of what people were already talking about him.

Sherlock generally cared little to not at all about what people thought of him - as long as they respected him for his work that is, and therefore Moriarty's scheme had been so cruel - but Victor's opinion was different. It was very important what Victor Trevor thought about him and his work. Always had been, even when he hadn't been here.

"Earth to Will, you still with me?", Victor brought him back from his musings.

Sherlock looked up at him. Victor always smiled at him, always had a kind word on his lips. They were so alike and yet so different.

Victor even had been nice to John, although Sherlock knew that he was not fond of his friend. He had invited him for dinner, but John had declined, stated that he would go out later for dinner with his current girlfriend. Now John was upstairs in his previous rooms, possibly reading a book.

Victor reached out and placed his hand over Sherlock's on the table top, his expression now serious.

"I know I can't stop you from worrying any more than I can stop myself, but we have to try and focus so we can solve this case."

Sherlock gave a sharp nod.

He was worried about Victor, of course he was. Why had his name to be on this blasted list? He was afraid for his best friend, a title he had easily taken back from John, who seemed to hate him at the moment. Not as much as he hated himself, but still enough to shout at Sherlock at any opportune moment.

Sherlock hated himself because he was weak now. He was useless, normal, mundane. He was not the brilliant detective anymore. Yes, he had managed to find out the motif for the murder today, however that had not been as great an accomplishment as he would have liked. He didn't even know how he could protect Victor, which should be his number one priority at the moment. But his brain decided to be tired and worn out, something it hadn't been before. Would the day have gone according to Sherlock, they wouldn't have made it out of bed at all. He would have been content to lie there with Victor all day, not doing anything in particular, maybe sleeping some more. Sleeping. The only thing of which he did plenty since he had come back from the Fall. At first he had thought that his body needed the rest, and didn't get enough of it because of the frequent nightmares, but now Sherlock wasn't so sure about this anymore.

Victor had this slight frown on his face, which told Sherlock that he suspected something. It was embarrassing. Sherlock didn't want Victor to know about his weakness. Hell, he didn't want anybody to know, but especially not his friend. His friend who had been through so much and was still himself and he, who had been on a mission for merely two years, and only captivated for the better part of two weeks, was damaged beyond repair. He couldn't admit to this shame.

Sure, Victor was aware of his nightmares now, of the episodes he sometimes got, but he didn't know the true extend of Sherlock's misery, although the detective suspected that Victor might guess it correctly, as he always did when it came to Sherlock.

"Will.", Victor almost murmured, his voice low and comforting. "What's going on?"

Sherlock almost sighed, but he held back. Victor's touch felt warm and soft, and he wanted nothing more than to hug the agent and forget about all the mess in his head.

"Please, Victor. Don't."

The grip on his hand tightened as Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, as if he could evade Victor's worrying gaze on him that way.

"I know you don't need me to say it, but I worry about you."

Sherlock shook his head. He hated himself for being like this, but the dark clouds in his head prevented him from accepting Victor’s affections properly. He knew that he was hurting his friend, but he couldn’t help it.

“Victor.”, he repeated, pleading the man to leave him alone.

Victor squeezed his hand comfortingly.

“Have you seen a therapist since you came back?”, he asked, his voice gentle and quiet.

Sherlock stiffened but he forced himself to give a sharp nod.

Please, leave, now Victor. Otherwise...

“Did they give you medications?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, his eyes opened again.

“You refused.” It didn't sound accusatory, and yet something in Sherlock snapped at that statement. It hadn't even been a question.

Sherlock stood so quickly that Victor almost jumped from his seat as well.

“Medications would change me; they would keep me from thinking!”

“And the depression doesn’t? The lack of sleep because you wake screaming and exhausted? The PTSD episodes?” Again, nothing about Victor's tone was accusing, just stating a fact. Asking simple questions to which Sherlock knew the answer to each one was yes.

Victor’s eyes didn’t have pity in them. He knew. He understood. He had told him that he had been through the same hell, no, through worse but despite all of this, though, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to talk with him about his problems in a civilised way. He couldn’t think and he didn’t need this conversation right now.

“Go, Victor. I can’t see you right now.”

Sherlock turned around.

“Will.”

“No! Leave. Now. I can’t...”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

“Will. I worry about you because-”

"Don't say it!", Sherlock stopped him mid-sentence, properly shouting now. He couldn't hear this right now. Not after he had hurt Victor with his words and the fact that he didn't seem to be trusting him. The thing was, Sherlock trusted Victor with more than his life, but he couldn't admit to his weakness. He just couldn't. And his brain told him to lash out. He knew what Victor had been about to say.

Sherlock was trying to get his mind to obey, to be rational about it. Victor was his best friend. They had always cared for each other and that wouldn't change because Sherlock deemed himself weak, and yet he couldn't bring himself to apologise and talk to Victor right now. He needed space.

"Please Vic. I need you to leave.", he begged, not even looking at his friend anymore.

Victor just nodded.

"Alright."

Victor’s steps were unusually loud in Sherlock’s ears as he left the flat.

Sherlock sank to the floor, putting his face in his hands. How could he do that? How could he push his best friend away like this? If he kept on behaving like this, Victor would up and leave again and this time for good. Fuck. What was he doing?

Then Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs, coming from the entrance. Victor. Did he come back despite Sherlock sending him away? He should be angry that his friend didn't obey his wish, however he found he couldn't. He wanted to apologise and cuddle close to Victor once more, as they had done the previous night.

Sherlock got up and was about to turn around to say as much to Victor, as his world went black.

NIGHT - LATER - VICTOR

Victor lay in the bed of his hotel room, his eyes not able to stay shut. He couldn't sleep, no matter what he tried. He was contemplating texting Sherlock, but he knew that this friend would ignore him now. He had every right to, of course, but on the other hand, it had been very childish of him to ignore his problems like he did. However, who was victor to judge. He had been doing the same when he had been in Sherlock's place, only that he had only been fighting with PTSD. It had taken him a long time to admit that he actually had troubles and had properly accepted the help his psychiatrist had been giving him.

There was no use in staying in bed when he was like this. He had always hated fighting with Will. They hadn't fought often, but it had happened, both of them being stubborn, however, one of them, most of the times Victor, had come to apologise after a few hours.

Victor had left Sherlock's flat some four hours ago, and spent most of it walking, until he had tried to go to bed. By now, Sherlock should have contacted him, or vice versa, but Victor didn't want to overstep his boundaries with his recently re-found friend.

The spy stood and contemplated to get himself a drink from the mini-fridge, but decided against it. This wouldn't help him sleep, he had tried too many times. He knew that he should sleep because he needed to be on the height of his game, not so much for himself as for Sherlock. If the assassins found him, Victor knew, no matter how good Sherlock still was at boxing, he wouldn't stand a chance, not even against one of them. And Victor highly suspected they would never be alone. Too risky. They had planned this for too long.

Victor sighed and dressed. He wasn't exactly sure why, but his feeling told him to go and see Will. It would be the only thing that would let him sleep and, as he knew Sherlock, it would be the only thing to make him sleep as well.

Victor was aware of the fact that strolling alone through the night when master-assassins were (possibly) after you, was not the best idea, so he decided to take a cab. 

Two possibilities.

A. He could ask the night receptionist to call him a cab. This night receptionist could be bribed by / working with the Romanians and call them to send a cab. They would come and pick him up and kidnap him. Then they wold kill him.

B. He could just go outside and try to flag a cab down, hoping that the Romanians were not hiding somewhere in a cab, waiting to pick him up. Kidnap and kill him.

Victor knew that walking would also take too long, and he had a feeling that Sherlock needed him right now as much as he needed him. So, he decided to go for option A. He didn't have a gun on himself, but he suspected them, that could give him an advantage. Also, it would be really hard to fetch a cab at this hour, if there were no Romanians around waiting for him.

So the spy went into the hotel lobby and had a quick chat with the guy at reception, asking him for a cab. He seemed mostly tired, not so much for the night work as from his job itself.

Chances of him being a Romanian spy: low.

Chances of Romanians managing to bribe him: high.

He could get out of his miserable job like this, leave the country maybe.

Victor thanked him nonetheless and went outside to wait for the cab, which arrived precisely two minutes and thirty-one seconds after.

The spy got into the cab. The driver was an older British guy, starting to chat with him the moment Victor closed the door and told him where to go. To be on the safe side, he told him an address a street down from Baker Street. Old habits die hard, although he was sure that the Romanians knew where Sherlock lived by now.

The cab ride wasn't long at all, but Victor felt exhausted and the cab driver was very chatty. Victor, luckily, hadn't to contribute any more than the occasional "Hmmhmm." and the driver seemed to be happy.

He definitely was not working with the Romanians and was taking him into the right direction as well.

Once there, Victor got out of the cab, after paying the driver, and went slowly towards Baker Street. He hadn't yet figured out what to say, but in the worst case, he would improvise. That wasn't a bad idea with Sherlock anyways, because the detective loved to surprise him and whatever beautiful speech Victor had rehearsed before, it would all be good for nothing.

The spy reached Sherlock's flat and debated whether to ring the doorbell or call Sherlock. He decided that both were not very likely options to get him into the apartment, although the first might annoy some other people in the house, like Sherlock's landlady, whom he had mentioned a few times over text. She seemed like a decent enough person, especially if she had put up with Sherlock as long as she had.

So, Victor did the only sensible thing which Sherlock would do as well in his situation; he picked the lock of the front door and hoped that there was no worried neighbour to see him and call the police, or worse, the police themselves patrolling the area. Tonight, he appeared to be lucky, and he managed to get in without further ado. The lock hadn't been particularly hard to pick, if one had the right tools on him, which he almost always had. Lockpicking tools were a must-have in the inside pocket of his coat, and he would never leave the house without them.

Victor closed the door behind himself, quietly, mind you, as not to frighten the landlady, although, he supposed, she was used to much worse noises at much odder times of night, or day, depending on which time of day one looked.

Victor ascended the stairs, stealthily, as not to startle Sherlock in case he was asleep. If he was awake, he would recognise him by steps alone, and he would, hopefully not try to shoot him - yes, that had happened before and Victor was pretty sure that Sherlock still had a gun hidden somewhere. The thought was also strangely comforting though, because like this, he knew, his chances of defending himself against the Romanians were a lot higher. Given that he could get to said gun in time, of course.

Victor gently tried to open the door of the flat, not expecting it to be open, but just in case. It gave way and swung open, to his surprise. That was a stupid thing to do, and Victor internally scolded Sherlock for being so careless as to forget something so trivial. The Romanians were dangerous and things like that were practically an open invitation for them, although they would probably be able to access the flat otherwise as well. Locked doors were no hurdle for them at all.

Victor closed the door, and would have locked it, if he had a key. He would have to ask Sherlock for one later, or, if the detective was already asleep, he would look for it himself. He was used to looking for things in Sherlock's chaos after all.

Carefully Victor approached Sherlock's bedroom and knocked gently. There was no answer from within, so he decided to open the door.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn as they were most of the time, when he had been in Sherlock's room. 

The dark lump that was Sherlock lay on the bed.

Victor opened the door a little more and the light from the hallway, which he had turned on earlier, lit up a little more of the room.

The spy sat down on the side of the bed, and immediately it hit him. Something was off.

Sherlock was laying on his back, fully clothed, for one, and not even under the duvet, which was certainly odd but not the strangest thing. However, his sleeves were rolled up and beside him lay a discarded syringe.

Victor's brain went into overdrive in less than a second.

He jumped up, turned on the light in the room, kneeling beside Sherlock once more. 

He turned the detective onto his side, checking for pulse. It was so weak that it made Victor's skin crawl with threat. Sherlock's own skin was clammy but cold, his breath laboured.

Victor pulled out his phone and speed dialled Mycroft's number.

Calling the ambulance was good, but calling Mycroft was better. Sherlock's brother would have an ambulance at his door in two minutes, if he had to. Sherlock had no time to wait for much longer than that.

Mycroft had the decency to pick up his phone (a private, high security number, which only a certain number of people had access to) quickly.

"Victor." Mycroft sounded surprised, which was a rare thing.

Victor gently lifted one of Sherlock's eyelids as he spoke, finding the pupils look like tiny pin pricks. That was not good at all.

"I need an ambulance for Sherlock. Now. Overdose."

"Done."

The call ended and Victor felt helpless. He couldn't do anything as long as Sherlock was still breathing on his own. Not for long anymore, he was sure of that, but he refused to think about it. It would be fine. Mycroft would do his magic and an ambulance would be here in no time and Will would be fine.

Victor took one of Sherlock's hands in his, squeezing it in so tightly that his knuckles went white.

"Don't you dare dying on me, abeille, not now that I finally have you back.", he wanted to sound stern but he was begging, trying to compose himself.

He forced himself to go back into thinking mode.

Sherlock had overdosed. Why? Because of what Victor had said? Yes, he had been pissed off, but would he...? Victor had a hard time believing it. So it must have been because of the depression. Victor, once more that day, felt the urge to mentally kick himself. He should have said something before and stayed with Sherlock. He shouldn't have left him alone.

The front door burst open and two paramedics rushed in.

"In here.", Victor called out.

When they entered the room, he took a few steps back to let them do their work, but also to observe them and make sure they were no Romanians. they didn't look like, and he didn't expect them too be since Mycroft sent them, but he had to be sure. They had managed to hack into a high security government website, so they surely would be able to bug their calls.

The paramedics worked efficiently and put Sherlock on a stretcher so they could carry him downstairs.

"We will get him into hospital now. Mr Holmes ordered us to bring him to..."

Victor held up his hand, stopping the man's sentence.

"I'm aware. It's... not safe to say it out loud here."

The man only nodded.

"We have instructions to take you as well, should you wish."

Victor wished to, of course he did. He wanted to make sure that Sherlock was safe and out of danger as soon as possible, but some tiny voice in the back of his mind told him to stay. There was something about his situation that he couldn't quite understand yet. And he didn't like not understanding, not one bit at all.

"I'll come down with you, but there is nothing I can do for him now." As much as he hated these words, it was true. There was nothing he could do for Will at the moment, apart from wait. He would go to the hospital as soon as he could, but for now, he wanted to have a look around Sherlock's room.

"Do you know what he took?", the second paramedic asked. They had packaged the syringe already and could determine, from the tiny bit left over, what had been in it, but it would be faster if they knew in advance.

Victor shook his head. "No." He could give them a guess that most likely some sort of opioid was involved, judging by Sherlock's symptoms, but he couldn't be sure of that, and they would know as much themselves when they looked him closely.

They had put a breathing mask on Sherlock's face, supplying him with extra oxygen, helping him breathe. Already Victor felt a little better, for he knew that someone was helping his abeille, but that also had the effect that the tension in his body started to loosen and the adrenaline stopped rushing into his bloodstream, and this was very bad, because it put him more than fifteen years back when he had had to deal with Will's first overdose. The fear that threatened to choke him, was back, and he felt like a twenty-year-old again. The helplessness was the worst of it all, and the fright that Will would never wake up again.

Downstairs they put him into the ambulance and closed the doors.

"You sure?", the first paramedic asked again.

"Yes."

He nodded and jumped into the cab of the ambulance, put on the flashing blue lights and rushed off.

Victor waited until the lights faded way. Only then he went back upstairs into Sherlock's room.

He had to push his personal feelings away and treat it like a case. He had to try and understand what Sherlock did and why he did it. Although Sherlock had always been better at reading people, Victor had been better at reconstructing their ways because he could empathise with him, whereas Sherlock was a little more "sociopathic", although that wasn't the whole truth. Sherlock was capable of way more feelings than he liked to admit, otherwise he would have never been able to love Victor the way he did.

Victor scanned the room. There was a loose floorboard, which looked like a secret hide-away. He would look at it later.

The syringe had been taken by the medics, but there was a tiny plastic bag on the nightstand. Victor lifted it to the light and saw a small residue of white powder in it.

It wasn't hard to jump to conclusions there. Sherlock had the cocaine hidden underneath the floor board and had decided it was time to take it out and shoot it up. But why?

As earlier concluded, Victor did not believe that it was because of their fight. Sherlock was in a very fragile state of mind at the moment, but he would not have taken it if it wouldn't have been much more severe than Victor could ever have known. But he didn't believe that. He would have noticed if Sherlock had been that bad. Or at least that was what he liked to tell himself.

Sherlock was a drama queen, so he most certainly would have considered taking something a lot of times in the last eight years - yes, Victor knew exactly how long Sherlock had been sober, although the detective always had doubted that he actually believed him when he told him - but he would have never gone through with it, especially not when he knew that Victor was here. Sherlock wasn't aware that he knew, but the detective had always been scared to disappoint Victor. He had tried his best to stay sober and had been so for the last eight years, even though through most of those years, they barely had had any contact.

When Mycroft had updated him about Sherlock's wellbeing, from time to time, he had voiced his suspicions of Sherlock using again, however Victor had assured him that this had never been the case. Sherlock had made a promise to him and he knew very well that the detective would never break that.

Victor set the plastic bag aside and went to the floorboard.

He found a second, sanitarily wrapped syringe and some papers. So he had been right. Sherlock had kept the cocaine... But why did his overdose point to an opioid overdose then? Sherlock currently suffered from depression and he was on a case. It was illogical that he should take opioids, in addition to cocaine, when he needed to think faster and not slower. And why was there only one bag if he had indeed injected two substances? Because Victor was almost hundred percent sure that Sherlock would have used cocaine, not morphine.

This made no sense to Victor and if it made no sense, it needed to be investigated until he got to the bottom of it.

Victor decided to look at the few papers in the hide-away as well. He didn't believe it, but just in case Sherlock had planned this, in case he had tried... No, Victor would have noticed, if it would have been that bad, he was sure of it. He knew Sherlock still quite well, could read him almost like an open book, although they might not be as close anymore as they once have been.

He didn't really want to pry in Sherlock's personal things, so he just had a quick glance over the papers, and put them away immediately when he found that they didn't contain a, well, suicide note.

Victor only paused at the last one. He remembered that one well. It was one of his first poems that he had ever written.  
At university, Victor had had the hobby of writing poetry, well he sometimes still did, although it was a rather unusual habit to have for a spy who lived off assassinating and stealing and whatever this job entailed.

Will had loved to tease him about his hobby, making fun of him every time he had found Victor with a pen in his hand or reading poetry.  
Said poem, Victor had written for Sherlock specifically, and Sherlock had ridiculed him even more for it, but internally, Victor had known, he had been very pleased that he had been on Victor's thoughts that much to inspire a poem.

When Victor had finished university and moved back to America, he had lost it, or so he had thought, because it was gone from his book where he collected them. However, now he knew where it went. It made him smile. And then, almost instantly, he felt like crying for the first time in, well, since he had heard of Sherlock's "suicide" on the TV.

What if the detective didn't make it? What if he didn't pull though this time?

Victor scolded himself for having such ridiculous thoughts. It would be fine, because Sherlock was strong, and the detective knew that he needed him. He couldn't go on without Sherlock, didn't want to.

Victor carefully put the papers back into the secret space and placed the floorboard over it once more, stepping on it to ensure that it was secure. Someone who didn't know where it was wouldn't suspect that it was loose. And one couldn't lift it without a tool.

Victor spun around, searching the floor. Sherlock would have needed something to open it, and if he had just left the floorboard itself discarded, he wouldn't have taken the time to p8ut away whatever he had used to open it in the first place. So how had he gotten in?  
Victor's search of Sherlock's not-as-messy-as-expected room came up with nothing. There were a few pens and like on the desk, but nothing he could have used to pry open the floorboard. He would have needed something strong, yet thin, like a knife, fore example. But nothing.

This discovery alone set off flashing alarm bells in Victor's head. 

He stapled his fingers together and closed his eyes.

The case of the cocaine injection but morphine overdose: The cocaine had been spiked with heroin powder, enough to make him not feel the effects enough and he would have injected more than necessary for a high. Then the cocaine would have worn off and he would have had way too much morphine in his body to cope with it. It had been an accident and / or an attempt from his dealer to kill him.

Was the dealer working with the Romanians? Not likely. Sherlock wouldn't have gone out and bought the cocaine this night. He had known about the threat from the Romanians and wouldn't have risked his life like that.

However, if it had been the dealer, the attack wouldn’t have only hit him but junkies as well (he refused to think of Sherlock as one because he really wasn’t). Then again, how likely was it that the dealer would kill all his customers? Then the guy who had sold him the drugs? But then again, killing people was not in the thought of business for them. Not the dealers then. He would still check up on other related deaths (because junkies wouldn’t go to hospital when they OD’d). For that though he would need to find out when Sherlock had bought the cocaine and from whom.

If he could cancel out the dealers, then who could have spiked exactly Sherlock’s bag with morphine (because Victor was pretty sure that had been the cause).

Suicide? No, definitely not. Not only that Victor would have realised that, he would have left a letter, drama queen that he was, at least for Victor's benefit.

If it hadn’t been any of the above, then there was only one option. Someone had injected the stuff into Sherlock against his will. Maybe they had put his to sleep before. The opioids in his body would cover those traces.

This would also explain how the floorboard was taken out without a knife being left somewhere.

But in order for someone to do that, they would have needed to know exactly where Sherlock had hidden the bag of cocaine. Someone would have needed to search Sherlock’s room very, very carefully in order to find it, or they would have needed to spy on Sherlock.  
It was just a suspicion, but still, he had to be sure.

Victor took Sherlock’s mobile; the code was easy to crack if you knew a little about these kinds of things, and choose DI Lestrade from the contacts.

The man actually answered the phone, although Victor could tell from the scratchy voice, that he had woken him up.

“Sherlock? Do you know what time it is?”

“DI Lestrade. I’m afraid I’m not Sherlock. It’s Victor. We’re having a situation here and I need a favour.”

Victor gave Lestrade a quick run down of what had happened and what Victor assumed.

“If someone managed to get in here and do this to him, I need to know. I need someone to comb the room thoroughly and search for anything at all that could help.”

Lestrade suddenly sounded so much more awake.

“I’ll arrange for a team to come over now.”

Victor thanked him and hung up.

He decided on having a small drink while waiting for the forensics team to arrive. It couldn’t hurt and he needed to calm his nerves.

The team arrived quite fast for that hour of night, and Victor showed them exactly where to go and what to look for. He knew that they were competent, but he knew exactly what he was looking for. No one, who wasn’t excellent at what they were doing, would attack Sherlock Holmes.

DI Lestrade arrived at the flat about half an hour later. 

In the meantime, Victor had taken Sherlock’s phone to look for any possible clues, like messages to unknown numbers, but he couldn’t find anything of importance. Yet he decided to keep the phone on him, just in case someone tried to contact Sherlock.

Victor was just texting Mycroft, when Lestrade entered the flat.

“Trevor.”

“Lestrade.”

They shook hands.

“Any news yet?”

Victor shook his head and lifted his mobile pointedly.

“I’m waiting for a reply but Mycroft would have contacted me if there was any development.”

“He lets you call him Mycroft, huh?”

“I’ve known him more or less as long as Sherlock. Besides, he likes to think me Sherlock’s voice of reason.”

Victor grimaced playfully.

“I actually was the worst of us two. I’m pretty sure Sherlock got some of his worst qualities because he listened to me way too often.”

A sad smile appeared on Victor’s lips but he couldn’t stop it any more than he could the tears that threatened to fill his eyes or the burning in the back of his throat.

Lestrade gripped his arm tightly.

“He’ll pull through, you know how he is.”

Victor gave a grateful nod towards the DI.

“And the person responsible for it, will receive what they deserve.”

Lestrade crossed his arms as he watched his forensics team do their work.

“You really think it was someone else?”

“Someone was somehow involved and I will find that person. I’m almost hundred percent sure he didn’t take it himself either but all I got so far are theories. I need proof.”

“For Mycroft?”

Victor shook his head.

“No, he’ll believe my word. But I need some clue to lead me to them.”

Victor faced Lestrade with a stern look.

“When I find this person, DI, you know I can’t...” 

Lestrade gave a sharp not.

“If I don’t know much about it, all the better. I’m just assuming Mr Holmes will be on your side. That’s all I need to know.”  
And judging from the look in Lestrade’s eyes, Victor had his blessings as well.  
Once more Victor checked his phone.

“Go.”

Victor opened his mouth.

“I’ll get someone to change the locks on the doors and keep the keys. You’ve got somewhere more important to be now.” Greg smiled. “It’s not my first day as DI, you know. I know how to protect my people as well.”

He winked at Victor before he went to check up on his forensics team.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me being late despite being locked inside (most of the time). Oh well, but the next chapter made it up and the story is plotted until the end now, so exciting times ahead :)  
x C.

HOSPITAL ROOM - VICTOR

By the time Victor arrived at the hospital, his hands were shaking. He had taken a cab, and that had been a very bad idea, because it had given him enough time to start thinking about what was going on. Mycroft hadn’t texted back yet and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. But if it would have been that bad, he surely would have called, wouldn’t he?

Victor composed himself as much as possible as he was walking towards the reception.

Mycroft was surely here, but he hadn’t texted him which room Sherlock was in yet, if he was in a room already, and, for security measures, he had to sign in and they would check his ID. If you weren’t on the listed emergency contact, you had no chance of getting in.

The spy wasn’t sure how often he had been in the same hospital already. Almost always Sherlock had come to visit him, even if they had only texted at this point. Only when their contact had completely stopped, he had stopped to come as well, however Victor knew that he had kept tabs on his physical wellbeing (whether it involved hacking a high security website or not).

Victor approached the desk, a lady smiling up at him despite the late (or early) hour.

"Good Evening, sir. How may I help?"

"I'm here for Sherlock Holmes."

The lady nodded and typed some information in the computer.

"May I see an ID, please?"

Victor fumbled in his pocket to get his wallet, and pulled out his government ID.

She nodded and typed something once more, before handing Victor's card back.

"Thank you. I will contact his doctor straight away that you are here already. Mr Holmes asked me to inform you that he is on his way already as well. He has not been in the country, but is on the plain at the moment."

Ah, that would explain the unanswered text messages.

Victor wanted to bombard the poor woman with so many questions about Sherlock's health, but he knew that, even if she was aware of what was going on, she was not allowed to give any such information at all. That's why he nodded and took a seat in the waiting area. Even the seats here were posh. They were soft and so, so comfortable. The soft, beige leather was almost like a hug. He focused on the feel of it underneath his fingertips.

No, Victor was not going crazy, Victor was trying to keep his mind from anything but Sherlock possibly dying right now. He had to, otherwise he, well, he remembered too well what had happened the last time he had thought that Sherlock died, and since he didn't know the people yet responsible for all this, this might even further stoke his rage and then Victor wouldn't be able to guarantee for anything anymore.

From this, one might think that Victor was generally a very violent person, which he was actually not. He loved poetry, as mention before, and he was one of the most patient people on earth, which was very helpful in his job. It was a rare occasion that he had to kill people, bad people but people nonetheless (who was to judge if they were bad anyways), and he had never enjoyed it. He had taken it as part of the job, as part of him surviving, but essentially, he preferred not to use this method to deal with things. 

The only time he was not master of his emotions, was when Sherlock was concerned. He couldn't think straight if he knew that something wasn't right with his friend. His attempts at finding clues in the flat had been mediocre at best. Normally he would have pieced together a possible profile by now. But he just couldn't.

Victor pushed a few strands of his blonde hair out of his face. It was longer than he preferred it by now, but he knew that Sherlock had always liked this length best, so he decided not to cut it for now.

No, stop thinking about Sherlock. 

Victor balled his hands into fists. He had to be strong now, for Will. It would all be fine eventually, it always was. How many times could he himself had already died and he was still here? How many times Sherlock had been in a dangerous situation and had managed to get out of it almost unscathed? They were fighters. They would get through this.

The waiting room was quiet. Apart from him, there was only one middle-aged woman, looking at her phone tiredly. Judging by the fact that mainly MI6 agents and other top government people were treated here, he supposed, that she had been through this too often to even be worried anymore. Just like Will with him. - Stop thinking about him!

Victor rubbed his eyes and sat forward with his elbows on his knees. Right now, he wished he had exchanged the contact lenses he was wearing for his glasses. He hated them, but he needed them, since, years ago, an explosion hadn't gone quite as expected and he had been blinded for several days. His previous eagle-sight had never fully returned, and so he had to help it out a little.

The doors of the waiting room opened and Victor looked up. Wrong direction for the doctor to come in, so nothing to freak out over. Yet.

In came instead a different doctor. John Watson entered the waiting room. Upon seeing Victor, he moved to his side quickly. His expression wasn't one of concern, but of anger as he stood in front of Victor, towering over the sitting man.  
Victor just waited.

"What... what is going on?"

"I don't know yet.", Victor answered truthfully.

"Yes, you do know." Watson pointed his finger at him. "You found Sherlock unconscious in his bedroom. Greg informed me.", he clarified, although that was pretty obvious to Victor. "He did take drugs again, didn't he? He broke every promise he ever made and shot up again. He is a fucking junkie!"

Victor got up from his seat; now he was towering over John, the man generally not being very tall.

"You're drunk.", Victor stated the obvious. "And I do not appreciate you talking like this about Sherlock although you don't even know what's happened."

John huffed an undignified laugh.

"He is a junkie, Victor. There is nothing to explain. He had a relapse, like Mycroft suspected so long. Now you saw it for yourself. He is not fit to have any friends."

Victor didn't so much as blink.

"Did you just come here then to talk bad about Sherlock?"

Watson looked a bit taken aback by that statement.

"If he had been such a bad friend, why are you here? I know he would like it if you cared for him, because he still sees you as his friend, but Dr Watson, if I see you do or say anything foolish in Sherlock's presence..."

Dr Watson tried to stand a little taller, but in his current state of intoxication, that was not an easy thing to do it seemed.

"Then what? I'm not scared of you."

Victor's eyes glinted dangerously, but he didn't say anything. He preferred his opponents to underestimate him.

While the two kept staring at each other, a doctor approached.

"Mr Trevor?"

Victor turned towards him immediately, his heart rate increasing rapidly.

"Yes."

"I'm Dr Evans, Mr Holmes' doctor."

"I'm Dr Watson, his friend.", John stated unasked.

Dr Evans glanced at him suspiciously.

"I'm afraid, Dr Watson, that I can only share a current update about Mr Holmes' state with his husband."

Watson's face did something weird between anger and a frown.

"He is not married."

Ah, yes. Not only this hospital, but also pretty much every other one around the whole world, would mainly grant married partners immediate updates and access to each other, therefore, out of sheer convenience, and only on paper, Sherlock and Victor were married. They never had had a proper wedding, no vows, just two signatures on a page in front of a government official. What surprised Victor now was, that Sherlock hadn't asked Mycroft to declare the marriage redundant, after they had stopped speaking to each other. Victor was fully aware that Sherlock had still cared for him, but that he had cared enough to still stay "married" to him...

"Yes, he is. He is my husband.", Victor informed Watson now, as if he had been aware of this all the time. Theoretically he had been, but, you know, the part where they hadn't talked to each other in years.

"What?!"

The look he received from Watson following his statement, was priceless, and had Victor not been so worried, he would have rejoiced a little bit in it.

The spy didn't dignify him with a response, but turned towards the doctor once more.

"Can we go somewhere more private?"

"Certainly, sir. If you follow me."

Dr Evans turned to leave and Victor followed him.

"You can't just leave me here! He's my friend too."

Dr Evans raised an eyebrow at Watson before he could say anything.

"That may be the case, but unless we get a specific request from Mr Holmes to let you visit him, we cannot grant access, I'm afraid."

John seemed to be in a fight with himself before his eyes fixed on Victor.

"You left him. You disappeared for years and then you suddenly show up again, claiming you're his husband. I heard you two fight the other night, so your relationship, however fucked up that may be, cannot be that good. You are no better than him. You two deserve each other."

And if Victor didn't agree with anything he had ever heard Watson say, he did empathise with the last statement.

"That may be the case, Dr Watson, nonetheless the fact remains that I am his husband and I would very much like to know how he is doing, so if you're quite done."

Victor turned and walked out of the waiting area with Dr Evans, not even bothering to look back at a now shouting Watson. He would update him about his friend's state, of course, he was no monster, but it was really more than Watson deserved.

Lestrade, and, Victor was sure, Mycroft because Lestrade didn't know where they brought him, had updated John about Sherlock's whereabouts, but they both didn't know any details about the current situation between John and Sherlock. Victor had seen them first hand and Watson's behaviour had been less than at its best. Sherlock might still think of the doctor as his friend, but Victor wasn't so sure anymore if that was true. Watson might have been a decent guy once, but now, under the influence of a lot of alcohol, he had changed into someone else and for that he had no one to blame but himself. He liked to blame Sherlock, of course, but this was not fair. Everybody was the writer of their own destiny, everybody decided consciously what they did.

Dr Evans led him into the lift and up to the highest floor, where they walked down a long, spotlessly clean corridor. It was strange to be on the other side of this situation for once, to be the one visiting and not the one hooked to different machines and an IV.

Dr Evans opened a door at the end of the corridor.

“Mr Holmes’ brother requested for him to be a bit apart from other patients.”

Victor, however, didn’t hear his words anymore. He saw Will, his precious abeille, lying there on the pale sheets, IV drip in his arm and oxygen mask on his face, and his heart skipped a few beats. He couldn’t breathe. Sherlock was too pale. He looked thin and more fragile than he had ever seen him and that scared him so much, that his knees threatened to give out underneath him.

Dr Evans realised the change in his behaviour and took his arm in his hand, holding him upright.

“Let’s sit you down, Mr Trevor.”

He managed to drag Victor to a chair beside Sherlock’s bed.

“How is he?”

Victor asked quietly without looking up from Sherlock’s pale face.

Dr Evans thumbed open the folder in his hands.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr Trevor. When the paramedics brought him in, I wasn’t confident that we would be able to save him.”

Victor closed his eyes tightly, taking a steadying breath before opening them again. Now he was able to look at Dr Evans.

“He got through the worst and we are currently injecting medication that should interfere with the drug in his body. From the symptoms he has been having, we treated him for an opioid overdose, which was confirmed shortly after by our laboratory, who checked the syringe.”

Victor had been right after all.

“Mr Trevor, my question is, do you know why Mr Holmes would have tried to kill himself? The dose in his blood was lethal, especially because he mixed it with cocaine. A lot of people die that way every year.”

Victor held Dr Evans’ gaze.

“Sherlock didn’t try to kill himself. It’s more complicated than that, but I can’t disclose any information just yet. I need to speak with his brother first. The police is searching his apartment as we speak, and a detective inspector will be in touch with you shortly, I can imagine.”

“He was attacked then?”

Victor gave a brief nod.

“I believe so, yes. There are certain pieces of evidence that point in this direction.”

Dr Evans nodded.

“Please make sure they get in touch with us. For now, all I can do, given Mr Holmes’ history, is put him under suicide watch as soon as he wakes up.”

“That will be alright. I’ll be here myself most of the time anyways.”

Dr Evans watched Victor for a moment.

“Shall we move another bed in here for you?”

Victor thought about it, but wasn’t sure if he would be able to leave Will’s side for long enough to sleep in a separate bed, even if it was just half a meter away.

“I’ll just request it for later, let us know when you should need it.”, Dr Evans told him, seemingly having read Victor’s thoughts.

Victor nodded.

“I’ll be around, should you need anything. Here’s the button to call the nurse.”

Dr Evans showed him the remote.

“Thanks.”

The doctor left the room, closing the door gently behind himself.

Victor looked at Will in the bed before him. So fragile.

Why did he leave him alone in the flat? He knew it was dangerous, but he just hadn’t expected the Romanian criminals to come after them so soon. He should have anticipated it, but he hadn’t and therefore, Sherlock laying here, was his fault. How could he have been so stupid?

Victor scooted his chair closer to the bed and gripped Will’s hand tightly in his. He wouldn’t let go of it until his friend was awake again. He would never leave him again, under no circumstances. He knew the hospital was as secure as it could get, but he wouldn’t leave Will’s side.

HOSPITAL ROOM - VICTOR

Victor’s eyes were burning and red by the time Mycroft arrived around noon. He hadn’t really cried, but the stress of the last few hours had left him tired and exhausted. He had refused to sleep, even in the extra bed that had been brought in at some point, because the nurse had insisted that he slept, after she had seen him. Victor had refused to leave his seat by Sherlock’s bed, and just ignored her.

The spy looked up as the door opened and Mycroft entered. He looked equally pale and about as tired as Victor felt, although he seemed a bit more composed. 

“Victor.”, he greeted, closing the door softly behind himself, his eyes glued to his brother on the white sheets.

“Mycroft.” It wasn’t a professional meeting, so they were on an agreement to use their first names. Should it involve business, they were back to being formal with each other, but right now, Victor was his brother’s husband.

Mycroft came to stand at the end of the bed, his jaw clenching as he watched the soft rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

“What happened?”, he asked, the anger clear in his voice. “You assured me he was better. You said he wouldn’t- “

“He didn’t.” Victor sat up without letting go of Will’s hand. “I found evidence pointing to the fact that Will couldn’t have done it himself. He wouldn’t. I know it. Mycroft, he would not have done this with me here. He would not have betrayed my trust like this, especially not since he just got me back.”

“Why do you know that? Did you talk to my brother?”

“No, but I know because I feel the same. You may not believe how we feel for each other, how complicated our relationship always was and still is, because we ourselves still don’t know what’s actually going on, but was I ever wrong with regards to Will?”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered to Victor before they came to rest back on Sherlock.

“So what are you saying?”

“I believe that somebody did this to him. Someone entered the flat, possibly just after I left, and they injected the substance into Sherlock. As I suspected, and the hospital confirmed, it was a mixture of cocaine and an opioid, most likely heroin of some kind. The cocaine wore off and Sherlock was left with an opioid overdose. I’m not sure why he didn’t call for help- actually, I can imagine, but I won’t say anything before Sherlock is not awake. I want him to explain what he thinks happened. I, myself, am convinced that he didn’t do it himself, however.”

Mycroft didn’t give any indication, but Victor knew that he trusted him. 

“I haven’t checked in with DI Lestrade yet.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Victor. 

“As soon as I had the suspicion of somebody being involved in this.”, Victor started to explain himself. “I called the DI and made sure the forensics team would try to find any possible evidence left behind by the people responsible.”

“You think it’s the Romanians?”, Mycroft asked. They had informed him straight after they had found out, but as they had also assumed before, there wasn’t really much Mycroft could do, apart from issue a warning to the according people. Most of them had been ordered back to the UK, whether this was a stupid thing to do or not, would show over the next few weeks, but they knew how to protect themselves and any possible family relations (which were not that many due to the risky job but still enough to worry about).

“I can’t be sure until I find some evidence.”

“Then I rely on you to procure this evidence as soon as possible. Matters have been arranged for them to be stopped, but it’s hard if we don’t have any names, you know?”

Victor nodded. Of course, these Romanian gangsters were smart. They would have made sure to conceal their identities from the UK government and were now undercover. They could be found out, but it would involve time; time which they didn’t have.

“I’ll be on the case as soon as I know Sherlock is out of danger.”

Mycroft looked back at his unconscious brother.

“His doctor says he is.”

Victor nodded.

“He believes that, yes, but I will not leave his side until he is. And then I want 24 hour protection for him.”

Victor didn’t look at Mycroft as he said that, but focussed on Sherlock’s closed eyes. Eyes that might never open again, no matter what the doctors said.

He scolded himself once more for having such dark thoughts, but he couldn’t help himself. Should his Will really die, the responsible person would have no chance of survival, Victor would make sure of that, and their death wouldn’t be an easy one.

“I thought that goes without saying.”

Victor decided not to answer. Mycroft cared for his brother, the spy knew that, but he didn’t trust Mycroft one hundred percent. Why? He just couldn’t. He had been mean to his little brother one too many times for Victor to completely trust him, although he was sure that he never would do any harm to Sherlock.

“When he wakes, I will go investigate the case. Until then, Lestrade is on it, I do trust him with the detective work for now.”

Victor could see Mycroft nod from the corner of his eyes.

“He is a very capable DI. That’s why I’ve allowed him to work with Sherlock for so long.”

Victor didn’t hear Mycroft leave after their conversation. He was too focussed on Sherlock to realise much of what was going on around him, but when he looked up, the elder Holmes was gone.

HOSPITAL ROOM - VICTOR

The next few days were hard for Victor. He barely slept, which, again, he was used to, but he wasn’t used to worrying that much.

The hospital staff were really nice and once he had dashed home to grab some spare clothes, they let him shower in the patient’s private bathroom, so he didn’t have to hurry home every time he wanted to wash.

Victor would have happily gone without a shower for days if it meant to stay with Sherlock, but he couldn’t imagine his odour being so pleasant for others if that were the case.

Victor just came back out from his shower, his hair still wet and dripping on his shirt, when he noticed something was off. It took him a second to realise what it was, but then he almost jumped, freezing in place instead.

The detective’s brilliant blue eyes were blinking slowly at him, who was standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

Victor forced himself to move, to breathe again, as he carefully ventured forward towards Sherlock’s bedside.

“Will?”, he asked quietly, coming to stand beside him. 

Only now Victor realised that the detective’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, his temples wet with shed ones.

“Will.”, Victor exclaimed a little louder now, and full on concerned. “Are you in pain? What’s happening?”

Victor reached out and pressed the button for the nurse.

“Someone is coming, don’t worry.”

The nurse entered and sent for a doctor, as she took off the breathing mask.

Dr Evans appeared almost instantly, sending Victor out of the room to perform his routine check on his patient.

Victor leaned against the wall outside Sherlock’s room, his hands on his face. Sherlock was awake. His _abeille_ had been looking at him, and although he had been crying, Victor had never been this relieved in his life before.

Will wasn’t completely safe yet, he knew that, and he might be in terrible pain, but he was alive. He was still here.

After a few minutes Victor was given the all-clear again and he entered the room once more.

Sherlock was now lying on the bed as he had before, sans the breathing mask. His eyes were focused on the ceiling, and, as Victor could see as he got closer, still wet with tears. Apparently the doctor hadn’t managed to relieve his pain then.

Victor came to stand beside Sherlock’s bed.

“Hey there.”

Sherlock blinked and more tears seemed to collect in his eyes, spilling out and over his temples.

“Hey.”, Victor shushed him and outstretched his hand to carefully, gently removed the wet tracks from his abeille’s skin. “It’s me, abeille, you’re safe.”

Sherlock’s body started to convulse slightly and Victor almost jumped, before he realised that his friend was trying to hold back sobs. 

The spy sank on the bed beside Sherlock, a gentle hand on his cheek.

“Are you in pain, Will?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, didn’t even so much as look at Victor, as he still battled his body’s involuntary responses to whatever pain he was feeling.

“Please, _abeille_, talk to me.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed.

Right now, and only for the second time in his life, Victor wasn’t sure what to do. Sherlock was clearly suffering, but he wasn’t telling him what was going on. Victor was an excellent spy, but he was no mind reader. He was pretty good at reading Sherlock, most of the times, but right now, was a different, new situation. He couldn’t possibly begin to guess what was ailing his friend.

“Will, can you tell me what happened? What do you remember?”

Sherlock flinched and, with a more or less lucky guess, depending on what you looked, Victor had hit the nail on the head, it appeared. So Sherlock’s break-down had nothing to do with any physical pain he was experiencing (of which Dr Evans surely would have informed Victor), but it was a mental one. What had happened to Sherlock after Victor had left? He felt the cold claws of threat gently stroking his back, waiting to dig in and rip the flesh from his spine and ribs. Goosebumps rose on his arms. What had…

“I didn’t mean to.”, Sherlock whispered almost too quiet for Victor to hear, who was still caught up in his thoughts.

“You didn’t mean to?”, he asked, confused.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes and flinched away from Victor’s touch, who took his hand back, resting it on the duvet between them.

“I thought about it so often, but I never actually did it. In like eight or so years, I never did. And then, yesterday.” 

Now it was Victor’s turn to flinch. He would never have interrupted Sherlock’s story, but after the man made a pause himself, he had to mention.

“_Abeille_, it wasn’t yesterday. You were unconscious for five days.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he stared at Victor in shock, before sobs started wrecking his body again. This time, Sherlock had no chance of holding them back.

Victor was on him in an instant. He pulled his friend into a hug, although he resisted at first, mindful of his IV line, holding him tight. Sherlock eventually stopped struggling and leaned into Victor’s chest.

The spy just let him cry, petting his hair, murmuring nonsense until his mouth went dry.

Sherlock gave a few snuffling noises, before he leaned back a little, studying Victor’s face.

“You’re still here.”, he observed.

“Where else would I be?”, Victor smiled gently. “The nurses almost treated me as a patient as well because I refused to leave you.”

“But you’re going to leave now?”

“Why would I do that?”

Victor wasn’t sure where Sherlock was going with these questions. Did he want to get rid of him? It would make sense, in a way, because essentially Sherlock was in here because of him. He had brought the Romanians on their tale in the first place, and then he had left Sherlock alone despite knowing the risks. He blamed himself enough for this, so he wouldn’t think worse of Sherlock if he thought it was his fault.

“Because…” Sherlock took a breath, his eyes cast downward once more. “Because I used again.”

Victor blinked for a moment.

“Will, _abeille_, look at me.”

Sherlock didn’t so Victor put a finger underneath his chin and gently lifted it until Sherlock’s eyes met his.

“What do you think happened that night?”

Sherlock blinked slowly for a few times, before he answered.

“You… went out. And I wanted to go after you. But somehow, I woke up on my bed, and I knew I had overdosed. I was so scared, I didn’t know why it happened, because I knew the dose I had to take exactly, I wouldn’t overdose. But then again, it could have happened because I was upset and miscalculated. Or because… of my weird brain. It’s been weird for a while now.”, Sherlock confessed and Victor had his assumptions confirmed. But now was not the time for that. “I had survived it before, I knew I could deal with it. I…” Now Sherlock closed his eyes again. “I didn’t want to call anybody, because then you would have found out that I used again, that I overdosed again, and I know how much you worried last time. I know that you… you left last time because of this. And I couldn’t… I just didn’t want you to…”

Sherlock’s voice broke and he was sobbing again. Victor’s heart broke that instant. That Sherlock had refused to call help because he had been afraid that Victor would leave him. This was unacceptable, and again Victor had no one else to blame but himself. Sherlock could have died because of him. Again.

“Will, bee, hey, shh. I would never leave you because of that. I never left because you overdose. I didn’t not come back because you were using after again. I… I had a different reason to keep my distance.”

Now was definitely not the time to confess everything to Sherlock, although he was pretty sure the man knew how he felt about him.

Sherlock opened his eyes carefully, eyeing Victor, presumably to see if he was lying. When he apparently couldn’t find any signs for it, he frowned.

“But why else did you leave?”

“I wanted the job. I needed the job. You always said I’m so much like you. You knew why I needed to leave.” No, he didn’t, but Victor hoped that Sherlock would that partial lie slide for now, as he wasn’t in his best condition. No such chance with Sherlock Holmes, though.

“That’s not everything, is it?”, he asked quietly.

Victor sighed. He could change the topic and decide against telling Sherlock everything right now, but that would probably upset the detective more than necessary, self-conscious as he was at the moment (Victor had barely ever seen Sherlock cry in his life). But if he told him, that wouldn’t be the way he had planned his confession.

Victor took a deep breath. Oh, fuck it. Pardon the language. The perfect moment didn’t exist anyways.

Victor, contrary to Sherlock, searched for his eyes, before he started speaking, and didn’t avert his gaze, apart from the normal breaks as to not appear creepy when speaking to a person.

“I was in love with you.”

Sherlock just stared at him. Maybe that hadn’t been clear enough for the still dazed detective, but even if, Victor felt like explaining himself a little more.

“I loved you, always, you knew that, but I fell in love with you, romantically speaking. I couldn’t bear to be near you and not touch you the way I would have liked to, not being able to take you on proper dates, to show you off as mine, to just tell you how I felt. So I had to leave for a bit to clear my head. I never intended to stay away as long as I did. Mycroft promised me shorter missions, with breaks in between, should I have wished to come home. But I was a coward. At first it was hard, but once I got used to missing you, I felt it easier to stay away.  
Don’t get me wrong, Will, I love you very much still, even if you asexual, I don’t mind at all, I was just always hoping for a more romantic relationship. It doesn’t even have to include sex. I mean, I would be fine to be without sex, that’s cool with me, if that’s what you want…”

And he was rambling helplessly and Sherlock just stared at him. Great. He probably had just fucked up every chance of anything ever happening. And he had dumped all this on Sherlock who had just woken up from a coma. If he could process it, his brain would probably work overdrive now.

“You…” Sherlock started and Victor braced himself. “You love me? As in romantically? As in present tense?”

Victor paled. Uh, maybe he had said that? Possibly? Shit. Sorry. Well, the damage was done, so he nodded.

“I do, very much so. I never stopped.”

Sherlock sunk back farther into his cushion, turning his head so he could keep his eyes on Victor.

“I’m not sure if I’m asexual. I’ve never been romantically, or sexually, attracted to anyone but you. So I’m not sure what I am.”

Now it was Victor’s turn to stare.

“Then you’re not leaving me again?”, Sherlock asked in a quiet voice, shaking Victor from his daze.

“No, I won’t.”

Victor laid down properly beside Sherlock, turning so he was facing his friend. Their hands found each other, and their fingers intertwined.

Victor wasn’t sure what any of this meant for them, but now was not the time to try and figure this out. Sherlock had to rest again, but before…

“That evening. You said you woke up in your bed. Is there anything else you remember?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“But I know that I was thinking about using very often lately. It was on my mind this evening.”

Victor winced internally. How could he have not seen how bad his friend really was? He had assumed that he wasn’t well, had seen the PTSD episodes first hand, so he should have known that his condition had been more serious than Sherlock had let on.

“Will, I don’t think that you did it.”

“What?”

“I think someone gained access into the flat just as I left and then they injected you with a mixture of cocaine, a too high dose, and morphine. This is one of the most dangerous drug cocktails out there and I know you wouldn’t take that yourself. You would have taken either or, but not both. You’re not stupid. Also, I figured, you were more likely to take cocaine, as you needed to think.”

Sherlock tried to think, Victor could see it.

“I had a small bag of cocaine in my bedroom. It was…”

“In the floorboard, yes. I found it. That was the next thing. The floorboard was open but how did you open it? You can’t do it with your bare hands.”

“I usually would take a small razor blade from the bathroom, which I would also use to…”

Sherlock made a weak hand gesture. To establish one thing Victor already knew, Sherlock did many destructive things with his body, but he did not self-harm with a blade (not anymore at least, but that was a topic for another day). He merely used the razor blade to split the cocaine into precise portions to mix his seven-percent solution.

“What felt like an overdose to you, was just the cocaine, then the morphine took over, and, well, that was essentially what almost killed you.”

Victor gripped Sherlock’s hand a little tighter as he said that.

“So, I didn’t…?”

Sherlock’s eyes were full of tears again, but this time it seemed to come from relief.

“No.” Victor smiled slightly. “You have been sober for what, eight years now? More? Why would you suddenly start again? And why would you start while I’m here, when you were so scared of me leaving because of that?”

Sherlock nodded slowly.

Victor laid a hand on his cheek, stroking softly.

“You should sleep now, abeille. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The spy knew that the other wanted to protest, but his eyes were falling shut, as the former caressed his cheek. 

HOSPITAL ROOM - VICTOR

“It felt like a cocaine overdose.”, Sherlock stated, looking down on his bedsheets. “I thought I could deal with it.”, he added more quietly.

Victor gently put his hand over one of Sherlock’s, squeezing it.

The doctor looked down at his chart, changing the page.

“It was, at first, but then opioid kicked in. Your body did well, better than I would have expected, so you were able to fight through it. To be honest, Mr Holmes, I didn’t have much expectations when you were brought in here. But I am more than happy that we were able to get you back to the land of the living.”

Dr Evans smiled at Sherlock but the detective wasn’t looking at him.

“How did the heroin get into the cocaine? I purchased pure cocaine from...” Sherlock paused.

Victor looked at the doctor.

“Could you give us a moment, please?”

Dr Evans nodded.

“Please ask for me if you need anything.”

The doctor left the room and Victor sat down beside Sherlock on the bed.

“Hey...”

Sherlock looked up, finally, from where he was staring at the duvet.

“I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure someone wanted to target you. I have a search running on people who died of an opioid overdose, but I’m sure the dealer wasn’t behind this. I’m sure the people, who administered the drug into your system, were the ones who added it to the cocaine.”

Sherlock looked at him, a desperation in his eyes that Victor didn’t ever want to see again in his whole life. He gripped his hand tighter.

“Then why didn’t I hear them coming into the flat? Why didn’t I notice before they...”, Sherlock trailed off.

Victor took a deep breath.

“That was my fault. You were emotionally upset because of me. It lowered your guard. You maybe thought that I came back.” Victor fought his tears. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I knew that they were out there. I should never have let you alone. I should have been there. I should have...”

A hand on his cheek let Victor shut up. His eyes moved to meet Sherlock’s.

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.”

Victor slowly leaned forward and met Sherlock’s lips with his own. The sensation was better than everything he had ever felt before. It was just a peck, but Victor separated from him, joy radiating from his every pore. And Sherlock seemed to be just as happy as he was.

“Victor.”, he breathed, astonishment clear in this one word.

“I... I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

Sherlock’s hand on his cheek moved to his neck as he pulled Victor in again, kissing him once more. Victor couldn’t believe this was happening, and he couldn’t have been happier, but he knew that Sherlock was in a vulnerable state at the moment and he would never take advantage of him. So he pulled away, hard as it was. Sherlock gave a little whimper and Victor smiled, putting his own hand on Sherlock’s cheek this time.

“You know how I feel about you.” Victor put his forehead against Sherlock’s, smiling. “I promise more of this once you’re out of the hospital.”

Sherlock gave a sound of disapproval, but Victor kissed his cheek and he seemed okay with that.

A sudden knock at the door let both men look up.

Sherlock nodded.

“Come in.”, Victor announced, but he didn’t leave Sherlock’s side from where he was sitting on the bed.

John Watson poked his head in, his gaze darkening a little as he saw Victor.

“John. Come in.”, Sherlock invited him and he did as he was told, coming closer towards the bed.

Victor was still holding onto Sherlock’s hand, no intention of letting go. Why would he? Just because Watson didn’t like him here?

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice the hostility between the two other men in the room and Victor was glad for that. He was sure that even under normal circumstances Sherlock would have barely picked up on it, but now he was even more oblivious to it. 

Victor observed the latest occupant of the room. Watson seemed... alright. At least there was no anger radiating off him. But he still avoided looking at Victor.

“Sherlock.”, John greeted and came to stand at the end of the bed.

Victor decided not to acknowledge him as well. He wasn’t really sure why exactly the doctor disliked him so much, but then again, he could probably find one or two reasons if he thought about it more closely. Anyways, as it stood, Victor was also not too keen on talking with Watson, so they were probably square.

“Why?”, Watson asked and Victor narrowed his eyes at him. He ignored it and went on. “Was it something that...” Watson’s gaze fell on Victor.

“Do you mind giving us some privacy?”

Victor squeezed Sherlock’s hand a little tighter.

“I’m not sure...”

“I want him here right now.”, Sherlock answered in a weak voice. Apparently, he knew what was coming now and tried to avoid it.

John glared at Victor but didn’t say anything, much to the latter’s surprise.

“Fine. So, was it something that Victor did? Something he said? I knew you were fighting when he stormed out of the flat.”

Victor bit the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, for now. He was a really patient and peaceful person, considering his job that was a little confusing, but he indeed was. However, he had next to no patience for Sherlock’s friend. Why this was the case, he wasn’t sure, but hearing and seeing how he had treated Sherlock the last few weeks, this was just unacceptable. No friend would react like this. But he had been over this before in his head and now was not the time to muse again over things that weren’t to change.

The spy could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him and he glanced back over.

“I... didn’t do anything. Victor is sure I was attacked.”, Sherlock said carefully, before he looked back over at John, who stared at them confusedly.

“So, you didn’t take the drugs yourself?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Possibly not.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means that I have no recollection of that evening whatsoever. As soon as Victor left, everything went black.”

John hummed, crossing his arms.

“Extreme reaction to an emotionally upsetting situation. You blacked out. Your mind wanted one thing only and you gave in.”

Victor straightened up a little.

“What are you trying to say, Dr Watson?”

“That Sherlock did this to himself. Not the first time he would’ve tried to kill himself and cover it up. There was no one else in the house because I was at the flat. I didn’t hear anything.”

“The Romanians are masters of their art. Someone who isn’t expecting them, would have had no chance of hearing them.”

John rubbed his face.

“You think the Romanians broke into our flat, and instead of kidnapping Sherlock to get to you, they tried to kill him with an overdose of cocaine? From his personal stash?”

“It was more than that. He was administered a high quantity of opioid as well.”

John laughed humourlessly.

“It’s not like I don’t believe this story about the Romanians. I know that they are dangerous and I’m aware that they are hot on your tails, but did you know that Sherlock, not sure as of how recent, is also quite fond of opioids sometimes? He doesn’t mind what he is taking as long as it has an effect on his mind. Speed it up or slow it down. He isn’t that picky. It wasn’t only once that he nicked the one or other bottle of morphine from my practise.”

Victor could feel Sherlock flinch on the bed, sinking deeper into the pillow.

The older hadn’t been aware of the fact that Sherlock was also prone to take opioids now as well. Why hadn’t he mentioned it earlier? 

Victor looked at his friend on the hospital bed, looking so fragile and not meeting his eyes.

“Sherlock? Does that mean you haven’t been clean for all these years, as you said you have been?”

Sherlock grabbed his hand tighter and Victor allowed the hold on it. It wasn’t as if he was angry with Sherlock, more like disappointed that his friend would lie to him as he had done, apparently.

“I only took it twice. I couldn’t sleep, and we weren’t talking anymore, so you couldn’t help me sleep. I only had two bad nights out of I don’t know how many. Doesn’t that count?”

Victor sighed and pulled his hand from Sherlock’s grasp. The consulting detective immediately looked up at him in desperation, his eyes pleading. Victor put his hand on Sherlock’s cheek.

“You could’ve just told me. You now know that I would never leave because of this. I just want there to be no more secrets between us. Can we agree on that?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly, almost reminding Victor a bit of a puppy, and he bent forward and kissed his lips gently.

Watson made a weird sound in the back of his throat, but Victor chose to ignore it. He didn’t much care for what people thought about him generally.

“So, I assume it’s true, then?”, Watson asked and both men looked back at him.

“What exactly?”, Sherlock asked for clarification.

“The husband thing.”

“Oh.” Sherlock seemed as if he had just remembered that they were actually married. “Yes, that is true.”

John shook his head in exasperation.

“I suppose it would’ve been too much to mention it at some point throughout the years?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“We weren’t really talking anymore. I didn’t think it was important. He was never here.”

Now it was Victor’s turn to flinch and look away. They had had their talk, but it still stung. And this time it was Sherlock, who reached for Victor’s hand and linked their fingers together.

Watson opened his mouth to say something but Victor beat him to it.

“Sherlock still needs to rest. If you wouldn’t mind...?”

Sherlock’s eyes were really almost closing on their own now, his body still exhausted from what he had been through.

“I’ll text you when I’m back in Baker Street.”, he mumbled.

Victor stood from the bed and tucked Sherlock in, making sure he was comfortable, before he returned to his chair.

The detective’s eyes were already closed when Watson turned and left the room without a further note.

Victor felt bad in some way. Watson was Sherlock’s friend and he had to at least try to get along with him, for his _abeille’s_ sake. Maybe he should try to talk to him when this was all over, and they might get onto the same page even. Providing that Watson would treat Sherlock once more like his friend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait once more.  
Delivered the synopsis, that I should actually be writing, to my producer, and now treated myself with writing something I don't have to plot :D  
Enjoy, lovely people :)  
x C.

VICTOR - BAKER STREET

Victor took Sherlock home to Baker Street a few days after. The detective was still weak but he was glad to be home.

“Do you need anything?”, Victor asked, as he carefully put Sherlock on his bed.

“A shower.”, Sherlock mumbled. “I feel terrible.”

“You never liked the smell of hospital.”, Victor stated as he knelt and removed Sherlock’s shoes, then his own.

“Because it reminds me of the times you got hurt.”

The spy’s face twisted and Sherlock knew that he had hit a sore spot again. He just couldn’t do it right.

“I know now how you felt every time you got the message of me being in hospital.”, Victor said and knelt in front of Sherlock, locking their gazes, “I would apologise again, but I know it’s not helpful. I can just promise to be more careful in the future.”

Sherlock swallowed through the knot in his throat. He couldn’t respond, didn’t trust his voice at the moment.

“Alright, shower it is for you.”

Victor helped Sherlock stand once more, and then went into the bathroom with him.

Sherlock sat down on the closed toilet lid, as Victor pulled out a towel and hanged it close to the shower.

“Are you going to wash me?”

Victor chuckled.

“If you’d like.”

Sherlock was a bit taken aback by that answer, and actually also tempted, but no, it wasn’t the right time. Not yet.

While he undressed, his friend went to fetch him some pyjamas to change into after he was done.

Victor was in the room as Sherlock let his last item of clothing fall to the floor and stepped into the shower. He could feel his beat friend’s gaze on his back, but didn’t turn around, although it made his stomach tingle in a very pleasant way.

SHERLOCK 

Sherlock had been back home for about a week.

Victor had moved in with him, taking the spare room, John’s former room, upstairs, to give Sherlock a little more privacy, since things between them were still fairly new.

Sherlock was happy to have him here, and he wouldn’t have minded to have him stay in his room, but he understood that Victor was mainly there because he pitied him. And because Sherlock was a liability. The once so brilliant man hadn’t even heard someone enter his flat, come up behind him and render him unconscious.

Sherlock pulled at his hair at that thought. Why did he do this to people? No, it wasn’t enough that his broken mind influenced his own life so much. He had to go and destroy someone else’s. 

So Sherlock tried to stay out of Victor’s way for as much as possible. He locked himself in his room and stayed in bed, mainly sleeping. 

Victor hadn’t even asked him to help on the case anymore, although he had heard the elder speaking about it on the phone, most likely with Mycroft. It made Sherlock feel even more useless than he had before Victor had come back. Now even his best friend thought that he wasn’t good for anything anymore. Sherlock was useless. Sherlock was normal. Sherlock’s mind was broken. He was broken. And no one wanted a broken man like him. Victor had been nice to him in hospital, but since then nothing had happened between them. 

Sherlock pulled the duvet over his head again. The blinds were drawn, but it still felt too bright in his room. The sun was out, which was pretty rare for London in this month, but to Sherlock it felt worse than the rain. 

Life was loud outside on the street. People were happy and noisy. Sherlock hated them. Sherlock hated this life. Sherlock hated himself. He felt like he never wanted to get out of bed again. No case in the world could hold his attention. And even if it could, he wouldn’t be able to solve it, because he just. Couldn’t. Concentrate. It was frustrating. It was as if his life had suddenly been robbed of everything that had been his life and now, he was just and empty shell, here to breathe, eat and sleep. And all of these things were just boring. They were normal. And Sherlock Holmes was definitely not normal. The day he was normal was the day he would leave this earth for good.

Apparently that day was closer than he had expected years ago.

A soft knock on the door made Sherlock wince. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He felt too exhausted from sleeping all week.

Victor gently opened the door, entering, but Sherlock kept the blanket over his head.

“Will? Is it alright if I come in?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

Victor carefully entered the room and sat down on the side of Sherlock’s bed.

“Hey, _abeille_, how are you?”

Sherlock felt Victor shift on the mattress, then the duvet raised itself a little.

“Hey.”, Victor whispered.

Sherlock put a hand over his eyes.

“Bright.”, he murmured.

Victor shifted again and the duvet came back down.

Sherlock seemed to have finally managed it. He had driven Victor away. 

Seconds after, he felt the mattress dip even more, as Victor crawled underneath the duvet himself, his face inches away from Sherlock’s.

The detective’s eyes opened in surprise as he felt Victor’s breath on his face.

“Hey.”, the spy murmured again, his hand coming up to caress Sherlock’s cheek. “You haven’t eaten yet.”

Sherlock just hummed.

Victor shifted again, putting his arm around Sherlock and pulling him close. He kissed his forehead gently.

“When I came back from my mission, the one that went so terribly astray, I didn’t want to see a therapist.”

Sherlock stiffened.

“They forced me to. And though I didn’t like speaking to a stranger, he managed to help me. I know what you’re going through at the moment, Will, and I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t talk to me. I know it’s difficult, but I love you, and I want you to get better. I know you don’t want to take any medication, because they will influence your mind, but your mind is already influenced.”

Sherlock deflated. He had been right. Victor thought of him as useless. He knew that his mind wasn’t as brilliant as the one he fell in love with so many years ago, and now he finally saw it. He would tell him that he would be leaving and that would be it.

“Will, I can hear you think. I know it’s hard for you to believe at the moment and to see anything positive, but I want you to know that...”

Victor stopped and made sure Sherlock looked into his eyes before he resumed talking.

“I love you. And I won’t leave you again, I promised. I just need you to tell me what I can do for you. It’s not going to be easy, but together we can manage. Because we’re both brilliant.”

Victor smiled and gently kissed Sherlock’s lips, just a peck. The detective felt terrible. His worries weren’t out of his head, they probably never would be because he would never understand how a perfect man like Victor could love him, but he felt relieved too. He knew that Victor had never lied to him, and that let him hope that everything he had said was true and he would really stay.

All this mix of emotions in his body made Sherlock feel utterly vulnerable. His eyes started to burn with tears, that spilled over. He broke into sobs and Victor gently took him into his arms and let him cry into his shoulder.

“Hey. It’s okay, bee.”, Victor shushed him, stroking his hair. “We’re in this together.”

Sherlock could only nod. He was still so unbearably tired, but he knew that Victor would help him as good as he could. He would try to get better, because he never would want to disappoint his best friend.

VICTOR 

Later that day, Victor managed to coax Sherlock out of bed. The high intelligence agent had prepared a light dinner for them both, some of Sherlock’s favourite foods, including toast with honey. 

Victor smiled as Sherlock generously put the sugary stuff on his piece of toast.

“You do know that honey is practically bee vomit, right?”, Victor teased.

Sherlock looked up at him, the toast in his mouth, just ready to be bitten off.

“That’s not quite correct.”, he mumbled while biting into his food.

Victor spread jam on his toast, before biting into it.

“So, did you know that bees can sleep between five and eight hours a day? They sometimes do that in flowers.”

Sherlock gave him a look as if to say ‘Mortal, you do test my patience’ but Victor just smiled.

“And do you want to know the best part about it? They like to sleep in pairs, holding each other’s feet.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes on him.

“You told me that before when you first started calling me ‘bee’.”

Victor grinned.

“You slept like this when we shared a bed all the time. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom in the mornings, because you would be so wrapped up around me.”

Sherlock blushed and took a sip of his tea, but Victor knew that he was smiling behind his cup.

Suddenly the front door opened and closed. Footsteps slowly ascended the stairs.

Victor was grateful that these steps didn’t belong to John Watson. He had heard him stomp around here a few times now, and he always made way too much noise. Also, Sherlock had asked, in hospital, for his key back, so Victor could keep it. The doctor hadn’t been impressed by this, but Sherlock had explained that Victor would live here instead of an expensive hotel room, and John had grudgingly given in. Theoretically he had had no right to still have a key anyways. He should have given that back to Mrs Hudson the moment he had moved out. And John also knew that, if he didn’t give his key back, Mycroft would probably be after him, as the elder Holmes wasn’t too happy about the doctor’s behaviour towards his brother either.

So, with the two occupants of 221B Baker Street currently sitting at the table, this left only one other person who held a key for the flat. 

Mycroft Holmes entered, closing the door softly behind himself, even locking it for good measure. You never knew.

Victor had been pissed off, apologies but that was really the only fitting word, with his ‘boss’ for quite a while and he hadn’t been too friendly in hospital either, but, just like Sherlock, deep down he liked the man. They had spent their teens together (Sherlock and Victor’s at least - Mycroft had been in his twenties). No one might believe it now, but despite Mycroft being a good few years older than the both of them, they had enjoyed being together. Their minds had been the same, they had understood each other. Mycroft had always been a little overprotective and felt the need to be in control of everything, but generally he hadn’t been a bad brother to Sherlock or a bad friend to Victor. He had thought the youngers a lot of the world and they had come to him with every question they had had. Of course, there had been fights, siblings, friends, would sometimes fight, but no one had ever meant the horrible things they said. 

Even now Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship wasn’t as bad as everyone assumed. Assuming, was good, because assuming kept them both safe. Had Victor done the same, had he pretended that Sherlock meant nothing to him, the detective wouldn’t have been attacked. But that was a topic he would revisit again on one of his sleepless nights.

“Good Evening.”, Mycroft greeted them as he put his umbrella against the wall, approaching the two men sitting at the kitchen table.

“Mycroft.”, Victor greeted him with a smile.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, not even the slightest jibe against his brother, and the spy and the British Government exchange a worried glance.

The elder Holmes sat down on a free chair, while Victor got a spare cup and filled it with some tea.

Mycroft reached out, touching his brother’s hand, who was still staring into his teacup.

“Sherlock.”

The detective didn’t flinch or pull back, which was a good sign, but he didn’t really react at all, which wasn’t that great.

“How are you feeling, physically?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Just so you know.”, Mycroft began carefully, a gentleness in his voice that no one would have thought possible from him (and that he would never use in front of somebody else apart from Sherlock - and Victor, but Victor had known them both before they had become those personas). “I have a therapist, if you’re ready to see one. He’d be happy to talk to you.”

Sherlock pulled away abruptly, but didn’t leave.

“I’ll not force you to do anything you don’t want to, but I worry about you, as does Victor. Even if you decide to see him and then never want to go back, that’s alright. Just, think about it. Please.”

Sherlock studied his teacup intensely, as if it were the most interesting experiment he had ever seen. Then...

“Alright.”, he whispered so quietly that both men almost missed it.

Mycroft exhaled slowly and Victor could see some of the worry disappear from the politician’s face. (He wasn’t a real politican, of course, but mentioning his real job would be a high security risk.)

Victor offered Mycroft a piece of toast, which he took with a nod of his head. The elder put some ham and cheese on it, before sighing almost in pleasure.

“That’s the first real food I’ve had all day.”

Victor frowned.

“You know that you have to eat properly, when working so hard.”

“Almost forgot about this, thank you for reminding me, Victor.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go for anything sweet.”, Sherlock teased weakly, but both men smiled at him.

“He’s still trying to lose weight.”, Victor explained.

“And he doesn’t seem to be very successful.”, Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

“You’re aware that I’m right here?”

Sherlock managed a weak grin.

“Yeah.”

Victor, too, grinned at the elder Holmes.

“We couldn’t miss you if we wanted, Mycie.”

And then both broke out into laughter.

Mycroft huffed and took another bite of his toast, but his lips were twitching upwards.

“You two deserve each other. You’re still as childish as when you were 16.”

“I was 16. Victor was almost 20.”, Sherlock intercepted, a little more enthusiastic now.

“That makes it even worse.”

“Will, do you remember when we went to see Mycroft over the Christmas holidays?”

“We had the best time in London.”

“You had a great time messing up my flat.”

“But you enjoyed the company when you came home from work.”

All three men smiled, lost in the memory for a moment.

It had been a great time.

Sherlock and Victor had met only a few months ago, shortly after the start of the new semester. Sherlock had been the new kid with no friends, and Victor the popular guy, who practically everyone had a crush on.

After convincing some people, they had moved in together and Victor, who had had no interest whatsoever to spend the holidays with his terrible father and alcoholic mother, had admitted that he would spend the holidays in their flat.

Sherlock, who had equally had no interest in going home to his boring family (his words, not Victor’s) had suggested that they should go to the capital for a few weeks, as there was always something interesting going on. 

Victor had agreed readily, eager to spend time with his new found friend. So Sherlock had called Mycroft and arranged for them to come and stay with him. Mycroft had sounded annoyed that he would have to babysit his little brother, but both had been able to hear the joy in his voice at the prospect, that he wouldn’t have to spend the holidays by himself, because he had to work and hadn’t had time to go home.

Sherlock’s parents had been disappointed and relieved at the same time. Disappointed that their son wouldn’t come home, but relieved that their other son wouldn’t have to spend Christmas by himself.

On the first day of their Christmas break, Sherlock and Victor had taken the train to London. Mycroft hadn’t had time to pick them up from the station, so he had left them with instructions for the underground and how they would get to his flat, where he would meet them to let them in.

The two friends had ended up waiting a little longer than expected for Mycroft, and the elder had seemed really sorry for this. After they had assured him that it was fine, he had taken them to dinner in a quite nice, not overly posh, place.

Victor and Sherlock had spent their days discovering the city (Tower of London - hell yes, both loved it, Victor the ghost stories - at which Sherlock rolled his eyes - and Sherlock the stories about the executions - at which Victor smiled fondly at his friend’s enthusiasm, British Museum - partly interesting, partly boring for both sides). They had gone to see a show in West End (Mycroft’s treat) and had explored various Christmas Markets (with some great food, which was a rare find for a picky eater like Sherlock, and amazing mulled wine). One evening, both friends had been really drunk at dinner at home with Mycroft. The elder Holmes, instead of being cross with them, had made them fish and chips from scratch (Mycroft was a really good cook if he wanted to) and had had a few beers while cooking, so he had been on a similar level of drunkenness with the two boys. Then they had played some ridiculous board game Mycroft had been gifted by his parents for some occasion or the other and had ended up crying with laughter.

The two friends had always been there when Mycroft had come home from work. If he had come especially late, they had prepared dinner for him already.

On Christmas morning they had exchanged some gifts, which Sherlock and Victor had picked up on their adventures in the city, and had then spend one of Mycroft’s only days off on the sofa, in their pyjamas, watching TV all day while eating Christmas food (some prepared by them, some of it pre-ordered and delivered the day before).

This was one of the best Christmases Victor had ever had, and he liked to think that it was equally so for the two Holmes brothers.

“Well, we do have a Christmas coming up in the near future.”, Mycroft mumbled into his tea.

Victor took Sherlock’s hand, smiling at his friend.

“I know that I’d spend it immediately again with you both.”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered from their joined hands to Sherlock’s face. The youngest in the room was smiling shyly, his cheeks reddening.

“Did you two finally talk?”

Both friends whipped their head around to look at Mycroft. He just shrugged.

“I thought it was clear that you would end up together after that Christmas, but that it took you two that long, I would’ve never expected that.”

“Why did you offer him the job, then?”, Sherlock asked.

Victor knew that Mycroft had always liked them being together, but he had also been the reason why he had left the country. No, correction, he had offered him a reason to leave the country. A reason Victor had been looking for, because he had been a coward.

Mycroft shrugged once more.

“That job you have been doing? Taking over after your father? It was a waste of your talent. You would’ve gone crazy after a while, maybe joined the wrong side of the business, so I had to intervene.”

“So you didn’t mind us...?” Sherlock gestured between him and Victor.

“Lord, no. Victor decided to leave himself and he had his reasons, I suppose. Reasons I don’t need to know, as long as you do.”

Mycroft looked pointedly at Sherlock, who nodded.

“I thought he left me because I was taking drugs.”

Victor squeezed Sherlock’s hand tightly.

“But it wasn’t.”

“If that had been the case, I wouldn’t have allowed Victor to contact you anymore. I wouldn’t have gotten you married on paper. You two were the most stubborn people I ever had to deal with, are you aware of that?”

Victor and Sherlock looked questioningly at the elder.

“After I had you registered as married, I thought you had realised. You rushed to him every time he had gotten hurt, Sherlock, and he loved to see you, after all these drug incidents happened. I thought you had figured it out.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed before he found the right words.

“You told me that caring wasn’t an advantage.”

“Because there was one person who so deeply cared for you, and who you so deeply cared for, you didn’t need to meet anyone else. You found the person when you were a teen. But I couldn’t say anything.” At Sherlock’s look he added: “Oh please, brother mine, have you ever listened to anything I said?”

“Sometimes.”, Sherlock mumbled.

“All this time you knew that...”, Victor started but stopped. Admittedly, looking back at it, he had been a fool. He had been so wrapped up in his opinion that Sherlock would never reciprocate his feelings, that he hadn’t seen that he had all along.

“It doesn’t matter now.”, Victor stated. “What matters is that we had a chat and Will knows how I feel about him. I’ll stay.”

“Your new job waits for you whenever you’re ready.”, Mycroft added calmly. He looked at his watch and stood.

“If you will excuse me now, I have an early meeting tomorrow.”

Mycroft went to Sherlock and out his hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

And then Sherlock did something very unexpected. Although Victor knew that the brothers kept up a fight for appearance’s sake, and that they actually got along more or less well behind closed doors, he didn’t expect Sherlock to get up and hug his brother.

Mycroft seemed equally taken aback, but he enfolded his younger brother into his arms a moment later.

“It’ll be alright again, Lockie.”, he whispered but Victor heard him.

The spy knew that Mycroft hadn’t used that childhood nickname in forever, and felt happy that the brothers were, deep down, still the ones he had spent a Christmas with so many years ago.

VICTOR 

Victor sat at the sofa, studying the new information Mycroft had sent over earlier that day. It wasn’t much to go by, but better than nothing. If they wanted to find the Romanians, for now, all they could do was keep an eye on them and hoping they would slip up. Or they would fall into a pattern. Anything, really.

Sherlock had gone to the therapist a couple of hours ago. Victor had offered to take him, but Sherlock had insisted that he could do it himself, and so Victor had been waiting for him to return, occupying himself with work, so he would stop worrying.

Suddenly the door opened and Sherlock entered. He flopped himself into his chair, his head in his hands.

Victor gave him a couple of minutes to compose himself, before he looked up from his laptop.

“Will? Everything alright?”

Sherlock just nodded. He pulled a paper from his coat pocket and held it out to Victor.

The MI6 agent stood and went to his friend to take it. The paper was a prescription for an anti-depressant and one to help him sleep, should the PTSD keep him awake.

Victor immediately knew how hard it must have been for Sherlock to see that confirmed on paper. The detective had always had a brilliant mind, since he had been born, and now it was clouded and would, probably, never be the same.

Victor himself didn’t mind. He loved the man with or without his brilliance, but Sherlock wouldn’t accept this change so easily. Which was understandable, because it was his capital, his life. This depression changed everything. The PTSD changed everything.

“I’ll go get them for you.”, Victor offered and Sherlock just nodded. Actually, buying them would make it more real.

VICTOR

After that, things got a little better for Sherlock. He slept through the nights, mostly dream and nightmare-less, and wake up in the mornings, feeling refreshed. He would eat more and take walks with Victor. 

Victor knew that in the first few days there was no sense in talking to him about the case. Not that there had been any new developments, mind you. The Romanians seemed to lay low at the moment.

First Sherlock had to feel a little more like himself and then Victor would get him to work on the case again. That this would be a long way Victor had anticipated, but the difficulty in the beginning, had him left worried that he’ll ever manage.

At first, Sherlock had to refused to take his medications and had only acquiesced to try them, for a period of time at least, when Victor promised to move from the upstairs bedroom to his. It hadn’t been very difficult for Victor to do so, since he had wanted to sleep beside his friend pretty badly, but Sherlock didn’t need to know that.

Then Sherlock had started to complain that the effects of the medications would leave his head foggy and that this would prevent him from thinking clearly. Victor had understood but he had had to confront Sherlock with the fact that even without the medications his head had been foggy. Sherlock had reacted quite violent to this statement, locking Victor out of his room for almost a whole day and night.

Now Victor was sitting, once more, in the living room with his laptop on his knees, brooding over the latest case that Lestrade had called him about just earlier. Another murder had happened. Ideally, he would need Sherlock to come out and examine the crime scene with him, but he wasn’t sure if the detective would be up for that.

He took off his glasses, and rubbed his tired eyes. He hadn’t slept and now it was shortly past four am. Taking care of Sherlock and the case was draining, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He, at last, could be with the man he loved and he wanted to help him through all of this. (That it had been his own fault that he had hadn’t been with Sherlock for the last fifteen years will be set aside for now.)

Suddenly the door to Sherlock’s bedroom opened and the detective came out, dressed properly. He walked over to his chair, sat down and looked at Victor sheepishly.

Victor gave him a small smile, before putting his glasses back on.

“We actually got a new lead, if you’re up to it?”

Victor scrolled through the information Lestrade had sent him, which wasn’t a lot.

“Dawn Harris, 43, female murder victim. Found this morning around 3am. The call was made by her boyfriend, who came home from work from a shift from the bar. He’s currently being checked, but as soon as Lestrade found her, he contacted Mycroft’s team and they confirmed that we will take over. They estimate the time of death between ten pm last night and one am this morning.“

Sherlock kept quiet for an awfully long time, so Victor looked up from his laptop, just to notice the younger staring at him. 

Victor felt worried for a moment, but then he noticed the slight flush on his friend’s cheeks. Casually the spy adjusted his glasses.

“Are you quite alright there?”, he asked with a knowing smirk and, to prove Victor right, Sherlock blushed even brighter, averting his eyes.

The spy gently closed his laptop and set it aside, before he stood and walked to stand beside Sherlock’s chair.

“So, would you like to accompany me to the crime scene?”

Sherlock nodded and moved to stand but Victor pushed him back down. The younger looked up, confusion in his eyes.

Victor didn’t give him much time to contemplate why the spy would deny him to go to the crime scene with him. He moved to sit astride Sherlock’s lap, holding himself up carefully as not to overload the detective with too much touch.

“Anything you wanted to tell me first, bee?”

Sherlock swallowed audibly, clearly not sure what to make of this situation.

Victor put a gentle hand into the detective’s hair, stroking.

“This okay?”

Sherlock nodded.

Victor bent forward.

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“Since... since when do you have glasses?”

Victor bit his lip to supress a grin.

“Oh, you like them?” 

Sherlock nodded.

“I only have them when I work on a computer for longer hours, or read. It gives me a headache otherwise.”

Then, to Victor’s surprise, Sherlock’s hands, albeit shaking a little, reached up and carefully took the glasses off his face, before he leaned in and pressed their lips together gently.

They had exchanged pecks before, but this was different. They stayed longer than only a couple of seconds. Victor started to move his lips, slow but with purpose. Sherlock reciprocated, clearly imitating Victor a little clumsily at first, but he was a fast learner.

Victor knew that he could potentially scare Sherlock off with anything too rash, and that he was probably, as the small voice in his head reminded him, taking advantage of him while under the influence of medication, but then again, Sherlock had confessed his romantic feelings for Victor before he had taken anything.

“You never kissed anyone before?”, Victor whispered.

Sherlock contemplated the question, but clearly wasn’t embarrassed by it.

“If it suited a higher need, of course. But not someone that I...”, Sherlock trailed off and he cleared his head. Victor gave him a warm smile. “Those kisses were passionless and flat, I knew how to do that. Now I know that kissing someone with real affection is different. Harder.”

Victor gently pressed his hips down into Sherlock’s and touched their lips together once more.

“Something is certainly hard.”

“Victor. Don’t be so crude.”, Sherlock whispered hoarsely but he blushed prettily.

Victor pulled Sherlock in once more, snogging the living hell out of him as if they were teenagers again. He was now making up for everything they should’ve done when they were young and in university. Still, despite their mature age, they felt the youthful excitement that came with being in love.

Sherlock whimpered underneath Victor and the spy could feel his hardness pressing against his own. His head spun with the thought. How often had he imagine this. And now he finally could have it.

“You’re so beautiful.”, Victor whispered between kisses that grew more and more urgent.

Sherlock seemed to be beyond words already. He whimpered, his eyes closed, lost in sensation.

Victor hadn’t planned on letting things go that far, but it would be way too cruel to stop now.

“Will, is this okay?”, he made sure. He didn’t want to overwhelm his friend.

Sherlock nodded quickly, a jerky kind of movement, and grabbed Victor’s neck, mashing their lips together once more.

Victor didn’t need any more confirmation. He reached down between them and pressed his palm against the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. The detective positively keened at the contact, his eyes flying open.

Victor watched him with fascination as he caressed Sherlock with a firm hand.

Sherlock bucked up into the spy’s touch, his mouth open with quiet moans, his eyes almost rolling back into his head.

Victor leaned forward, kissing Sherlock’s neck, his ear, the side of his face.

“That’s it. So beautiful. My bee.”

Sherlock gave a violent thrust and almost managed to dislodge Victor.

“Vic...”, he breathed.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. You can let go.”

Suddenly stomping steps were audible outside the flat.

Victor’s eyes flew to the door. Locked. Then back to Sherlock, whose expression was positively panicked.

“No, please, don’t stop, don’t stop...”

“I won’t.”

Victor pressed their lips together and swallowed Sherlock’s moan just as there was knock on the door.

Sherlock arched his hips up into Victor’s hand and the spy could feel warm wetness seeping through the fabric.

Victor pressed his hand down hard, giving Sherlock something to ride out his orgasm as long as he needed.

“Sherlock? Are you there?”, John asked from outside.

Victor gently pecked the detective’s lips, brushing his clean hand through his hair.

“Alright, _abeille_?”, he murmured.

Sherlock nodded, clinging tightly to him.

“Sherlock?!” John again.

Victor sighed.

“Do you want to clean up?”

Sherlock’s hold on him tightened. Victor laughed.

“Alright.” Victor stood and pulled a confused Sherlock to his feet, interlacing their fingers. Then he turned towards the door.

“Sherlock’s not quite ready yet. We’ll be out in a few minutes. We’ll meet you at the cafè downstairs.”, he said loudly. 

Whatever John might or might not have said, they both didn’t hear it anymore. 

Victor pulled Sherlock into his room so he could change his underwear (and trousers) and get cleaned up.

“What about you?”, Sherlock asked.

Victor smiled.

“I’m alright for now.”

The spy could see Sherlock’s face and he immediately added: “I want you, abeille, be assured of that.” Victor gently kissed Sherlock, stroking his hair. “But I want to take my time with you and do it properly.” Victor kissed the detectives cheek. “That was just a taster for what’s to come.”

SHERLOCK - CRIME SCENE

Sherlock, Victor and John arrived at the crime scene about an hour later. John hadn’t spoken much since they had met him at the café beside their flat.

Sherlock hadn’t felt like talking much during the cab ride, still lost in his thoughts about what had happened just earlier. He knew he should be all giddy and happy after the physical release, he should be madly in love with Victor, but he wasn’t. No. Poor choice of words. He loved Victor, he was sure of that, always had been, but there was no giddiness, no madly in love feeling. Sherlock was glad that Victor was here and he craved his presence, but he didn’t feel that much different than before Victor had arrived.

Now was not the time to think about those things though. Now they had a case to solve. Not just any case. Victor’s life depended on them solving it, and maybe his own. He would be alright with not being able to save his own life, but he had to protect Victor under any circumstances.

Sherlock and John entered the crime scene first. Victor stayed a few steps behind Sherlock, apparently still remembering that he needed his space when he had to concentrate.

A few years, well, maybe even a few months, until before his capture, he hadn’t even needed to concentrate much when being confronted with a crime scene or certain problem, but now it was more of an effort.

Lestrade was already there when they were let in. He looked a bit pale around his nose, indicating that the crime must have been a little more violent than they were used to. He just gestured for them to enter the next room, a bedroom. Sherlock had to admit that even he felt a little queasy now, despite being able to disconnect from the fact that this had once been a human being. For all he knew, this could’ve been Victor. And if it was, no. Sherlock had to stop thinking about it. This would never come to be. He wouldn’t let it happen.

Sherlock tried to focus on the body of the victim, which was in a pool of blood on the floor. The victim’s face wasn’t recognisable anymore, but the clothes suggested that it was a woman.

Sherlock tried to see the things that weren’t visible for anyone else. He focussed on recreating the crime, trying to see where the killer would’ve come from. But there was nothing. Every time he saw something, it immediately blurred together in his mind, becoming an indiscernible mess. He couldn’t separate details from each other. Every shred of information rushed into his brain, but he couldn’t do anything with it. His brain wouldn’t let him. Or maybe the medication wouldn’t let him. It was useless. 

Sherlock used to be the brightest person in England, well, apart from Stephen Hawking maybe, bless him, but now he was no more than... a fraud. He had become what Moriarty had decided he would become. 

Sherlock brought himself out of his mind palace, seeing that John was pressing a hand over his mouth and nose. Even he, who had spent years in active duty as a medic and was used to seeing the gruesome wounds that the war inflicted, seemed to be affected.

Only Victor, who was standing in the doorway, didn’t even so much as blink. Sherlock admired it, but it also made the question come up as to what the man must have seen in his career while working for the high intelligence department of the British Government. Sherlock felt his heart grow heavy with the thoughts of what Victor had been through, all on his own. If he had been only just half as bad as Sherlock felt right now... And Sherlock had actually someone who cared about him right now. He felt guilty that he had not invested more into their friendship. Just checking up on Victor via Mycroft had not been enough for the man himself; Sherlock should have known how trying his kind of job was.

"We got the call in a little after 3am, as I already explained to Victor on the phone.", Lestrade explained. "Sorry to rip you out of the comfort of your homes and straight into a nightmare, but I wanted you guys to see that."

Lestrade pointedly looked at Victor as he said that. Sherlock knew that Lestrade had picked up on the fact that something wasn't quite right with him at the moment and so the DI was relying on Victor to hold him more or less together and solve the case. He should be insulted by the treatment, but since Victor was involved, he couldn't bring himself to be upset. “I have no more details as of yet, although forensics assumes that he has been dead since around 10pm last night."

Sherlock wanted to have a closer look at things but the whole scene was quite overwhelming. The longer he looked at the dead person on the floor, the more her facial features, or what was left of them, started to twist and become Victor's.

The spy must’ve sensed the change in the detective’s behaviour, as he was suddenly by his side, looking down at the body himself.

The detective snuck a hand out towards Victor, grabbing his friend's hand in his without looking up from the victim.

Victor subtly intertwined their fingers without further acknowledging what had occurred, squeezing ever so gently.

“Look at her left temple.”, Victor murmured to Sherlock. The detective followed his line of sight. “The first hit came with a sharp object from the killer’s right hand. But he wasn’t by himself.”

Victor dragged Sherlock around the body, kneeling by its head.

“Just as I thought. Here. A little piece of paper.”

Sherlock studied it.

“Chewing gum wrapper.”

“Exactly.”

“He must be addicted to it if he chews at a crime scene. He was careless. A habit.”

“Could belong to the victim, though.”

At Victor’s words Sherlock cast a quick glance around the room. 

“Unlikely. She was way too... chic to chew gum. She wouldn’t have liked it. As an agent, it would have been an annoying habit.”

Victor nodded, studying the carpet.

“Did someone check for footprints already?”

“Yes.”, Lestrade answered, a little annoyed.

Victor hummed.

“Did they find this partial print here?”

Lestrade frowned and motioned one of the forensic investigators to come in. 

“There is no partial print, sir.”, the investigator explained to Victor.

Sherlock huffed.

“I can see it with my naked eye.”

Victor gently squeezed the detective’s hand, which was still intertwined with his, but he had to fight a smile. And Sherlock obviously knew that.

What Sherlock hadn’t realised was that Victor had gently coaxed him into his old pattern of thinking, helping a little along the way, but not forcing. Right now, Sherlock didn’t think he could love him anymore.

The forensic investigator knelt as Victor pulled Sherlock to stand again.

“I can’t see anything.”

Victor pointed towards the slight indentation in the carpet. It was no more than the first two inches of a shoe profile.

The investigator immediately called in his colleague, asking them to take pictures.

Sherlock tried to see whatever he hadn’t managed to see yet, but the images blurred together again. This time he could feel his stomach churn. He tugged at Victor’s hand, trying to free himself.

Victor let go of him immediately and Sherlock dashed out of the flat as fast as he could. He knew that John must be staring after him, judging his sudden departure again, but he couldn’t care less. 

As soon as Sherlock was outside the building, he fell to his knees on the sidewalk and started to throw up. 

Passer-bys looked at him and changed the side of the street, disgusted. He could feel their gaze on his back.

Suddenly cool a cool hand was on his forehead, brushing his hair back. Another hand was on his upper back, rubbing soothingly.

Sherlock stopped heaving and took a deep breath.

Victor kneeled beside him, his face a worried grimace.

“I’m alright.”, Sherlock mumbled.

“Medication?”

“Probably.”

“You should go back and ask for a different one.”, Victor suggested.

Sherlock leaned into him and nodded. He knew that Victor was right. Maybe, eventually, they would find a medication that would help him feel more like himself again. For now, he was just glad that he had Victor by his side.

“Do you mind waiting here for a moment, I just want to have one last look at the crime scene.”, Victor asked.

Of course, they had a case to deal with and Sherlock was only a hindrance at the moment. If he was himself, he would want to have another look as well, but he knew that he wouldn’t be of any help, just stand in the way of Victor finding some possibly vital information for the case.

Sherlock hated himself that he couldn’t deliver anymore, that he was this useless, ordinary person, who got sick at a crime scene.

The detective knew that, if he would ask Victor, he would take him straight home, but he would never do that. He knew how important the case was, and how important the job was for Victor as well.

So, against his own feelings, he nodded and let go of Victor. He could feel the spy’s worried glance on him, but he didn’t turn to look at him, because he wasn’t sure if he could stay strong if he did.

“I’ll be back in no time.”

By then, John had exited the house and was watching them.

Victor gave him a glance.

“Watson, do you mind staying with Sherlock while I go inside?”

Sherlock could hear in Victor’s voice that he was everything but please with the situation, but it was this or leaving Sherlock by himself. The detective felt a little flash of anger, because he was definitely not a child anymore, but then again, he had just been throwing up in the streets, so he would be reluctant to leave Victor as well, if he were in the same situation.

As Victor left, Sherlock could see the gaze with which John followed the man, before he turned towards him.

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock just nodded and went to sit on the curb. John frowned a little but knelt beside him.

“Sherlock, I’m not sure about this Victor guy.”

Sherlock looked up at him, silently begging, yes begging, that John wouldn’t start this discussion now. He had absolutely no interest in their silly feud right now.

“John.”, he interrupted any further words. “You are both my friends. I’ve known Victor longer than I have anybody else, Mycroft aside. I understand that you don’t get along too well, but please, don’t make me choose between you. Because I will, if this doesn’t end.”

Sherlock knew this was no empty threat. He had thought that the way John treated him had been justified, the first few times, but Victor was right. No one deserved to be treated badly, especially with violence, by a friend. This person was no friend if they did.

John just stared at him, before his eyes narrowed.

“So, you’re telling me you’d end our friendship?”

Sherlock sighed.

“John, you didn’t even want to talk to me, when I came back. You wouldn’t come to solve cases with me. It was your decision in the first place, to not be friends anymore. You did your part as well to destroy what we had.”

The moment he had spoken the words, he knew they were true. He knew that, if John would’ve still been his best friend, he would have known how badly Sherlock was. He was a doctor and couldn’t see that he was suffering from various traumas since he came back from Serbia. Sure, Sherlock had tried to hide it, but Victor had seen it nonetheless. So, if John had bothered, he would’ve seen it, wouldn’t he?

John huffed and looked down the street.

“I can’t believe this. He’s been here for what, a couple of weeks? And you already go crazy. There is something off about him, Sherlock. I can see that you adore him, and that blinds you. Something isn’t right about him, and you better find out what it is, before it’s too late.”

John stood and, without sparing another glance at Sherlock, walked away.

Sherlock looked after him, thinking about what he had said. Of course, John was jealous and didn’t like Victor and that’s why he would try to put doubts in Sherlock’s head, but this was Victor. Sherlock couldn’t imagine that Victor would ever do him any harm. He had said he loved him, and Victor, just as he himself, wasn’t a person to say something like this lightly, or ever, for that matter. 

Just then, Victor exited the building once more, quickly walking up to where Sherlock was sitting.

“Where’s Watson?”

“Had to leave.”, Sherlock mumbled.

Victor sat down beside him, nudging him with his shoulder.

“You alright?”

Sherlock thought about just saying yes, but he knew Victor would see through the lie. He wouldn’t push him to talk, but he would know, and Sherlock saw no point in not telling him the truth.

“I don’t know.”, he replied quietly.

Victor stayed quiet and gave him the chance to say something more, if he wanted, but he wasn’t himself right now and therefore he decided against it. Maybe with changed medication he would be better and he would be able to have a proper talk with Victor, and then John as well. Then they would see where this all would lead. And, more important, he would be able to finally concentrate on the case and give it as much attention as he wanted to give it.

Victor stood and helped Sherlock to his feet.

“Let’s go home. Do you want me to text Mycroft to arrange an appointment with your therapist tomorrow?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I’ll call him later. He already texted me this morning. He’s worried again.”

“Understandable.”

Sherlock nodded his asset.

“But he doesn’t need to worry so much if you’ve got me.”

Victor grinned and Sherlock couldn’t help himself but give a small smile in return. It was good to have Victor here, he was an improvement for his mood every time, and invaluable in a time like this.

Lestrade came towards them, colour having returned to his face once more.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes. I checked the crime scene over again and I think I got what I wanted. Please let me know if you have any more information. The MI6 should be here soon and they’ll take over the crime scene.”

“They’re here already. I’ll just brief them and that’s it for me. Gentlemen.”

Lestrade gave a nod and left them.

Victor took hold of Sherlock’s hand once more, leading him away from the taped off area to catch a cab back to Baker Street.

“I think I found something on the crime scene, but I can’t make anything of it yet.”

Victor flagged down a cab.

“I need to look something up and then I’ll tell you if I’m right.”

Victor helped Sherlock into the cab and they left for their home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who can believe it? I'm back.  
Life had me a little stressed out with everything going on, but I'm finally finding my way back to my stories, which gives me hope. I had to pause this fic, as I didn't feel I had the right voice for Sherlock or Victor, but they are back, and they are going to kick ass ;)  
I hope you enjoy and I do promise that it won't be that long a wait anymore until the next chapter (and the end of the fic).  
I hope you enjoy.  
All kinds of love are welcome <3  
(It also it a tiny bit shorter than usual, but in the next chapter the case will kick off again and I wanted to keep that together.)  
  
x C.

SHERLOCK

A couple of weeks later, Sherlock had new medication and his mood had improved drastically, as he felt more like himself. Not yet completely back to normal, but this time the medication seemed to be working better. He slept during the nights and was able to think (more or less) during the days. He was a little more active as well, although he tired quite easily. Victor had asked him to take up boxing lessons again, together with him when this was all over, and Sherlock had agreed. Some physical exercise would be good for him.

The both of them had also made good progress on the case. Victor had found some soil, which definitely could only have come from a few specific areas in London. They had looked into it and had found that the soil samples, which they had analysed, only matched with two of those areas in London, both around Southbank.

They had told Mycroft and he had organised people to watch both places, however, they haven’t found anything as of yet.

This case was a slow progress, which was annoying, but good on the other hand, because Sherlock could focus on his health, with Victor’s help. Were he by himself, he knew that, he wouldn’t have the patience to eat three meals a day or to drink enough water or to even take his medications.

Sherlock still had bad days, of course, and they still happened more frequent than he would like to admit, but he had learned to live with it. He simply locked himself away in his room, only getting up to use the toilet. On those days, Victor would check up on him frequently, trying to cheer him up with his favourite foods or drinks, but sometimes nothing helped. He didn’t even like Victor’s company on those days, and he hated himself for it.

Today was such a day. 

Sherlock hadn’t made it out of bed. He was tired beyond belief and had rejected Victor’s attempt at feeding him. The spy had left and shortly after, Sherlock had heard the front door close. 

Of course, Victor would get tired of having to take care of him and stay the whole day in their apartment. Sherlock didn’t own him, he could go wherever he liked, whenever he liked. 

So Sherlock spent a few hours dozing, his mind feeling heavy, his eyelids unable to stay open for more than a few minutes.

A soft knock on his door roused Sherlock from his slumber. 

The door opened quietly and Victor stepped inside, smiling at him. 

Sherlock just extended his arm slowly.

“Hey there. Feeling thirsty?”

Victor put a chilled water bottle in Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

Sherlock drank, grateful that Victor always instinctively seemed to know what he needed before he himself was aware of it.

Victor set down beside him as he lied back down, putting the bottle aside. The spy’s hand gently stroked his knee through the blanket.

“I got you a little something.”, his friend confessed.

Sherlock closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open any longer. He just hummed as Victor pulled down the blanket to his hips and gently lifted his hand from his chest. Then the spy placed something warm and soft on the spot where his hand had been, just to replace it once more on the same spot just over the warm thing.

Now Sherlock was holding a ball of fluff on his chest.

He opened his eyes, staring down at the little thing on him.

The kitten blinked up at him, judging the situation. It was so tiny, if fit completely underneath the palm of Sherlock’s hand. It was white and fluffy, with a single black spot on the tip of its tail.

Victor laid down beside Sherlock, kissing his cheek.

“Sherlock, meet Alfred. Alfred, this is Sherlock, my boyfriend.”

Sherlock turned his eyes to look at Victor, who leaned his forehead against the detective’s temple.

“They are amazing emotional support animals. It took me a little while to find him. I named him Albert, after Albert Nobel, but if you want to change -“

“He’s perfect.”, Sherlock whispered and gently moved his hands into the soft fur of the kitten. It started to purr immediately and closed its eyes. 

“I thought it might help a little on those days.”

Sherlock turned his head and kissed Victor, urging him to cuddle closer.

Victor laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and held the detective close, while he petted Albert with his free hand.

MYCROFT

This was exactly how Mycroft found them a couple of hours later, all three of them asleep. 

The elder Holmes couldn’t help but smile a little at the sight of his brother and his brother-in-law. Those two boys had always been the only ones who could tug at his otherwise stone-cold heart. He had never wanted to admit it, but they had known. He had loved Victor like a brother since they had spent that one Christmas together.

Mycroft took good care of all his agents active in the field, no one could say anything against that, but he had always made sure to keep an extra eye on Victor. When he had suddenly gone off grid in one of his missions, Mycroft hadn’t rested until he had had him back and safe, although it had taken him longer than he would have liked. He had felt almost as bad as when his own brother had been held captive.

When Sherlock had been caught in Serbia, Mycroft had blamed himself. He had understood why Victor had been fuming and he had to admit that he should’ve let Victor accompany Sherlock on his mission. Then the whole situation would be different now. He should never have let Sherlock go through with their plan. He should have protected Sherlock better. But there was no use in crying over spilt milk now. What had happened, had happened.

For all that it was worth, Mycroft still blamed himself for Sherlock’s current state and for the fact that he should have been there more often for his brother in the past, that she should’ve known, should’ve seen how bad he was and given him more attention so he wouldn’t have felt the need to turn back to drugs. 

Sherlock had always been a little rebellious, but Mycroft knew that he had never hated him.

They had been very close as children, up until Sherlock’s first overdose. Shortly before that had happened, Victor had left the country and he himself had been more caught up in work than ever due to a recent promotion. He should have been there for Sherlock, knowing that his little brother wouldn’t do well because of the separation of his best friend. But he had been so focussed on his work, that he had neglected Sherlock.

They had had a chat after Sherlock had come out of rehab, and his younger brother had told him that he didn’t blame him, but that hadn’t stopped Mycroft from doing so himself.

Only weeks after, Sherlock had received a death threat. Mycroft had enough enemies to know that it had been because of him. So they had both decided to make sure that people knew that they didn’t get along. They had started bickering in earnest. It had always been a ruse, but seeing each other almost never (due to Mycroft being busy) and keeping up this charade when others were around had driven them involuntarily farther apart. 

Only after Sherlock had come back from his mission, they had grown closer again, steadily. It had started with Sherlock texting him every second day or so, until it was several texts daily. Mycroft had always replied, no matter in which important meeting he had been. They had talked about cold cases, which he had asked Lestrade about, and then eventually even private things. There even had been the occasional call, although Sherlock hated to call.

Things had only been getting better when Victor had come back. Mycroft had known it would be a good idea to get the agent back to London. Now he had them both back safe and sound, more or less, and he would give his life to protect them.

The elder Holmes cleared his throat gently as not to startle them both awake.

Victor was the first to open his eyes and turn to look up at him. As soon as the agent saw him, he tried to sit up, but Mycroft motioned him not to, as Sherlock’s legs were tangled with his own and he would be disturbed. 

“You don’t have to wake him.”, Mycroft said quietly.

Victor looked back at Sherlock and the kitten on his chest.

“He’s awake already.” Victor sat up but stayed close.

Sherlock curled up on his side, mindful of the little thing in his hand.

“You got yourselves a baby, I see?” Mycroft couldn’t help but smirk. Those two caring for a little animal. This was precisely as it had been all those years ago, only that it had been a dog that they had loved dearly back then. 

“I thought it might be good for Sherlock to have an emotional support animal.”

“Mycie’s just jealous.”, Sherlock grumbled. 

Mycroft was very glad to hear his brother answer. 

“And it appears to be working already.”, Victor grinned relieved and kissed Sherlock’s cheek.

“Shall we order some dinner? Mycroft? You’ll stay?”

Before Mycroft could answer, Sherlock interjected. 

“Of course he’ll stay. He can’t say no to food.”

“I would cook, but I’m afraid I fell asleep and now it’s too late.”, Victor explained as he pulled out his phone.

Sherlock was still curled up on his side, his eyes closed. The kitten in his hand stirred and started to try to get to its feet to walk towards Victor. It was still a little unsteady on its tiny legs but, even Mycroft had to admit that, rather cute.

“How about pizza?”, Victor asked as he caught the little kitten with his free hand, turning it so it was wobbling back to Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed as he pulled the little ball of fur closer. Eventually he slowly opened his eyes, looking up at his elder brother. 

“Mycie, relax. Take off your armour and get comfortable.”

Mycroft never did that. He wouldn’t be seen dead without his three-piece suit. Only at his own home, when there was no one around, he would be alright with winding down and letting a little of his control down by taking off his formal clothes.

Now, however, he was interested in what it would be like to spend an evening with... friends. After their visit this one Christmas, Sherlock and Victor had come to stay with him more often, even during university times, taking Victor’s little dog along. Mycroft had complained, not seriously though, about having an animal in his flat, but he had liked it, and most of all, the two boys, around.

Victor and Sherlock were both in comfortable home clothes, soft trousers and shirts, so he figured he could lose some pieces of his clothes if he stayed (which had already been decided by Sherlock).

Mycroft put away his umbrella, leaning it against Sherlock’s desk, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the chair. Then he proceeded to remove his tie, waistcoat and shoes, as both other men didn’t wear any, only socks. He even loosened a couple of buttons on his shirt.

Victor stood, dragging Sherlock out of bed, who was still holding on to the kitten.

“I need the bathroom.”, the detective announced and held the tiny ball of fur out to Mycroft.

The latter stared at it for a moment, frowning. 

“It’s not going to bite, Mycroft.”

Mycroft knew that. And yet... 

Nonetheless, he took the cat.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock ended up between Victor and Mycroft on the sofa. Victor had put on a film he claimed to be one of the guilty pleasures of his. “Jurassic World” (the first one). Mycroft, to the detective’s surprise, had agreed with the choice.

Now they were munching on their pizzas while watching a dinosaur chase after people. The movie was stupid, and they all frequently commented on it, but it was entertaining to spend time like this with his friends.

Sherlock would never admit it, but he was glad that he had his big brother back in his life as it used to be. He had hated that they had grown apart so far, and had been scared that they would never be able to make up the distance between them. Now this thought seemed ridiculous. His brother, whom he had been so close with as a child, was, deep down, still the same person he once had been, and there was no way that they wouldn’t get along if they tried. Now they would still tease each other, but their jabs would hold no malice.

Sherlock had to admit that he indeed missed John a little, despite what everyone said about him, but he knew that they had drifted apart. Just like himself, John wasn’t the same person anymore.

Albert meowed on the floor, sad at being left out, so Sherlock bent down to pick him up.

“What’s its name?” Mycroft studied the cat. 

“Albert.”

Mycroft’s face scrunched up. 

“You know that this is a girl, right?”

Victor frowned at Mycroft.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a cat.”

“Uh, what? No, if it’s a girl, it needs a girl name.”, Sherlock said, mildly horrified. “Can you imagine her getting teased by her cat friends because she has a boy’s name?”

Victor just shook his head.

“Then give her a different name.”

Sherlock frowned at the little white ball of fluff in his hands.

“Hmm, how about... Marie?”

Victor lifted his eyebrow.

“Marie Curie?”

Sherlock nodded as Mycroft chuckled quietly.

“I like it.”, Victor said, kissing Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock grinned and kissed the kitten’s head, before he laid down, with his head in Victor’s lap, his legs in Mycroft’s.

“Am I your new cushion, brother dear?”

Sherlock hummed.

Mycroft shook his head and all three returned to their movie, although the two elder men started to pet Sherlock’s head and legs respectively.

MRS HUDSON

Martha Hudson has never been a woman easily scared. For crying out loud, she took on Sherlock without batting an eye. She had had to adapt a certain attitude. Therefore, she wasn’t scared as she opened the door to a visitor, who almost pounded a hole into the wood.

“Dr Watson. Must you be so loud at this time of night?”, she chided, staying in the doorway, effectively blocking it. 

She knew that he and Sherlock had had troubles lately, but she wasn’t sure if that had had anything to do with the dashing young man who had moved into John’s old room, or because Sherlock had finally had enough of John’s attitude.

Martha had to admit that she herself had been everything but alright with the way John had treated Sherlock since he had come back. 

She had patched up Sherlock a couple of times after John had punched him, and had heard their, or better, John’s raised voice from upstairs and she hadn’t liked it one bit.

Of course, Sherlock could have been a little more sensible when he reappeared from the dead, but she saw the reason why he had had to deceive them. She would forever be grateful to the young man, who was like a son to her. He had saved her life and proved that he really wasn’t as emotionally detached from everyone as he liked to claim he was.

So she had forgiven him in the blink of an eye for staging his own death, just glad that he was alive and more or less well.

“I’m sorry, but I have to have a word with Sherlock.”

“He has company at the moment.”

Martha had heard Sherlock’s brother arrive a few hours earlier, and he hadn’t left since. She was glad that the two boys got along a little better now. They were the only family they had left and they should treasure it. She knew what she was talking about.

“I don’t care. I have to speak with him.”

“Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”

“No.”

Martha sighed. Well, at least Sherlock wasn’t by himself, so John would probably be a little more polite than he had been in the past few months.

“I’ll let him know that you’re here.”

Martha tried to close the door, but John held it open. 

“I’ll just go up myself, thanks.” And with those words he pushed her aside and ascended the stairs quickly.

“John Watson! You do not push me again.”, she scolded as she closed the door and followed him upstairs.

John had already entered the flat and stood in Sherlock’s living room, frozen.

Martha entered after him, an apologetic expression on her face.

“I’m sorry, I tried to keep him downstairs and get you.”

Mycroft smiled at her. He actually smiled, albeit only slightly. Maybe she should mark that day in her calendar.

Her heart warmed even more when she saw the three boys cuddled up on the sofa, Mycroft even allowing his brother’s legs to lie on his lap. Seemingly, they had also managed to make Sherlock eat, which was great news. The boy was really way too thin and not eating nearly enough for all this running around he did on a daily basis. She was scared that one day he would faint while chasing a criminal.

“Dr Watson, must you interrupt the boys now? I’m pretty sure you can come back tomorrow.”, she asked again, trying to get him out of the flat.

Mycroft held out his hand.

“It’s alright, Mrs Hudson. Would you like some pizza?”, he offered her with a motion towards the almost empty cardboard boxes. 

“No thank you, dear. Try to get Sherlock to eat that, though.”

Sherlock groaned but didn’t say anything mean. Progress, she supposed.

Only now she saw the little squirmy thing on his chest.

“Who is that?”, she almost squeaked, the girl in her making an appearance.

“Marie.”, answered the charming young lad, she had gotten to know as Victor. She had only met him a couple of times, but he seemed to be quite taken with Sherlock, and Sherlock with him, which meant that she was quite taken with him as well.

Suddenly John raised his arms to stop all their conversation.

“What the actual hell is going on here? Can we all stop pretending there is nothing wrong with whatever this is?”

“And what precisely is this?”, Mycroft Holmes asked, his voice lowered to a tone Martha would loathe to be at the receiving end of. Although she would take on even Mycroft, if she had to. 

“Since when do you and Sherlock get along, for starters?”

“If you had bothered to look properly, then you would’ve known, since ever.”, the politician replied.

“Sherlock even described you as his arch-enemy.”

Mycroft patted Sherlock’s leg gently.

“He likes to do that sometimes, yes.”

“What the hell.”, John mumbled, looking at Sherlock. “This isn’t you.”, he continued, louder this time. “Playing all happy family with these two? Your brother whom you loathe and your... whatever he is, who just waltzed back into your life, destroying our friendship and taking my place? You have to come to your senses before it’s too late.”

Sherlock sat up so abruptly that Marie gave out a little, startled meow.

Victor’s hands came up and took the kitten gently from the detective’s hands, placing it on his own lap, petting it soothingly.

Sherlock stood.

“I think we should talk in private.”

“Happy to.”, John replied sarcastically before folding his arms in front of his body. 

Martha knew this was her cue to leave, as there were already too many people in the flat. She snuck out the door, venturing back downstairs. Should Sherlock and John come downstairs, she would try to listen in, in case the former would need some help from the other men.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock knew that this was probably a bad idea, but he had to make amends with John, or at least try to, before this whole situation escalated. He knew that John missed him, missed the time they had spent together, as his new girlfriend wasn’t only terribly boring but also tired of him already. 

John was an adrenaline junkie, not unlike himself, and that’s why their friendship had worked out so well when they had first met. Now, however, it seemed to be the very thing that poisoned it. John made Sherlock responsible for everything that went wrong in his life and that the excitement was gone. He couldn’t, no, he simply wouldn’t understand that Sherlock would still need some time before he could go out chasing criminals again as he had before. The detective himself couldn’t quite believe it yet that he wasn’t the same anymore, but he slowly started to come to terms with it. Unlike John.

John wanted to be part of this case, and Sherlock didn’t mind having him on it, but it was more thinking and less running then John was used to. The danger was clearly higher than on any other case, which the attack on himself had proven, but that apparently wasn’t enough for John.

Also, he was clearly jealous of Victor. Victor was very helpful on the case as he was one of the only people in the world who could match Sherlock’s intellect. He was smart and well trained in what he was doing and therefore Sherlock needed his assistance more than anything. Or better, Victor needed his assistance, as Sherlock wasn’t, to his dismay, fit enough to take the lead on a case. No matter how good it felt to be able to do some work again after weeks and weeks of despairing.

Also, the medications, as tired and useless as they rendered him, the few clear hours he had every day, were really clear and gave him hope that he could get better.

His doctor had warned him that he might gain some weight due to the medications, but so far, he hadn’t realised anything like this. He was genetically not made for it, he thought. Also, he was very vain and experiencing something like this would probably force a set-back. However, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

For now, he had John to deal with. He had to make him stop to verbally abuse Victor (and himself) on every meeting they had. Otherwise, as good-natured as Victor was, Sherlock feared he might snap and no one would ever be able to find Dr John Watson again.

The detective was aware of the fact that both, Mycroft and Victor, were watching him, ready to jump in if necessary. It kind of upset him that they thought that he couldn’t look after himself, but recent events with John had proven that he, to his shame, indeed needed help in defending himself.

“Will?”, Victor asked gently and Sherlock could hear in his tone of voice that he would rather not have him go anywhere alone with John. But Victor would have to trust him on this one.

Sherlock turned to look at his... whatever Victor was to him.

“Do you mind, just for a moment?”

“Do you have to ask him for permission now to go out?”, John snapped.

Victor got to his feet.

“You better watch your words, Dr Watson.” His voice was cold as ice and Sherlock had to fight the oncoming blush. Victor all dangerous and oozing authority did something to him he had never thought possible.

“Or what? Are you his bodyguard now?”, John mocked. He really didn’t have to do that.

“Maybe I just don’t trust you.”

“Good, because neither do I.”

The two men glared at each other. Sherlock knew he had to step in now to prevent any further escalating of the situation. As hot as Victor was like this, the constant bickering of them together was getting on his nerves and he could feel a headache settle in. He needed to go back to sleep sooner rather than later. And therefore, he had to get this over with.

“Shut up. Both of you.” Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers to his temples, closing his eyes.

Both men fell quiet, watching as the detective took a deep breath and opened his eyes again.

Sherlock could see concern in Victor’s eyes, annoyance in John’s. And that really should have told him everything about how the men were feeling towards him, but he had no head to deal with this right now. Right now, he had to get John out of here without a fight and that would only happen when they would talk.

Sherlock turned to face John.

“I need no one’s permission, but Victor is living here now, in case it escaped your notice, as things so often do, and it is the polite thing to do to ask him to leave for a moment so we can talk.”

Then he turned back to Victor.

“John has been my friend for years now. Years, in which you haven’t been here. Please respect that I know what I’m doing.”

It was an unfair and hurtful thing to say, but Sherlock knew that Victor would understand. He wasn’t the same man anymore that Victor had once left. He had grown and changed. And although he held Victor still in high esteem, the other had to understand that there had been other people in his life who had become important too.

He knew that Victor was a genuine person and would never force himself into his life if he didn’t want to, but he also knew that he was at least a little jealous of John, who had spent time with and helped him properly start his career as a detective, when he himself had been at the other end of the planet.

There was a flash of hurt visible across Victor’s features and Sherlock regretted his words immediately, but the spy gave a sharp nod in acquiescence. 

“Of course you’re right. I’ll see Mycroft out and will be back later.”

Mycroft rose from the sofa, his eyes not leaving John once while he slowly made his way to Sherlock’s room to fetch his things.

As they all waited for him to return, the silence in the flat was almost suffocating. Sherlock felt that if something didn’t happen soon, he would start to scream. 

And then Victor’s hand landed on his arm, ever so gently and only for a fraction of a second, but he calmed instantly. Victor always seemed to be able to read his mind. If he wasn’t so used to it from before, he would have found it seriously unsettling. Now it was just a case of getting used to once more. He had to admit he rather liked it.

Mycroft returned, properly dressed again, umbrella in hand. He nodded at Sherlock and with one last, wordless but dangerous glance at John, disappeared from the flat, Victor following him.

Sherlock turned back to John, ignoring the painful sting in his heart, which the hurt look on Victor’s face had induced. He wasn’t sure how much he would need to make up for that later on.

John leaned forward with his arms on his knees.

“I wanted to apologise. I haven’t been myself lately, and I know I let it out on you. There is still a lot to be said about it...” John held up his hand to silence Sherlock, who had opened his mouth in order to say something. “But I still do care about you. You’re my friend, for God’s sake. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

John took a deep breath.

“I can only guess what’s going on between you and Victor, but I don’t care. What I care about, is that some crazy Romanian guys are apparently trying to kill you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment.

“Apparently?”

John rubbed his hand over his face. Sherlock realised only now how tired he looked. The shade of a beard on his face added a few years to his appearance, but Sherlock assumed that he himself didn’t look much better. He at least didn’t feel it.

“You haven’t seen Victor in many years, correct? And then there is this one crime scene, across the world, and he waltzes in? He is back in your life like nothing ever happened. Whatever happened between you.”

Sherlock kept quiet. He was almost certain of what John was going to say, but he didn’t stop him.

“And then you get attacked. He knows the flat, he knows you. He knows about your past.”

_And he is also a professional spy slash assassin, who knows exactly how to deal with your victims, how to not leave bruises on their bodies, how to make everything look like it was done by the victim and not to leave any traces. And he knows his way around drugs about as good as I do, if not better. _

And yet. Victor was not the person he was looking for.

“It’s not him, John.”

“But...”

“No. You’ll have to trust me on this. He isn’t our person. He didn’t attack me.”

John got to his feet, enraged again.

“How can you not see that? How can you just trust him, blindly? This isn’t you!”

Sherlock got up as well. The shouting still made him flinch inside, but he managed to keep it together. For now.

“So what about you then?”

John blinked rapidly.

“What about me?”

“You had reason to drug me. You’ve been furious with me since I came back. You’re a doctor. You would’ve had access to the right medication to create the cocktail of drugs, which was injected into my arm, not to mention syringes. You would’ve easily found my vein. I would have trusted you to let you close enough until it was too late. You almost attacked me twice. You were here that night and didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary and neither on the next morning.”

Sherlock paused for effect and some part of him enjoyed the shocked look on John’s face.

“But I’m not accusing you, as much as I don’t accuse Victor. I don’t believe either of you did it.”

John found his composure once more and gritted his teeth.

“This isn’t the same. He has been gone for years. How do you still know he’s the same person he once was?”

Sherlock swallowed. This had been the problem all along, hadn’t it? This is where their friendship had started to break.

Sherlock was changed and John wasn’t considerate enough to try to understand.

“Just as I’m not the same person?”, Sherlock countered.

John let out a breath.

“Yes.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“He’s not either and I’m not pretending that he is. But either you trust me on this, or you back out from the case.”

Sherlock just trusted Victor enough, understood enough as to know that part of him hadn’t changed. Part of him was still alive somewhere in there, despite all the horrors he had seen, just as part of himself was still alive somewhere deep down. Victor, contrary to John, just had enough patience to wait for that part to shine through once more.

John stared at Sherlock for a full minute, not moving, barely breathing, before he turned and left the flat without another word.

Sherlock sank back down in his chair, hands on his face. 

VICTOR

When Victor came back into the flat, he immediately knew something was wrong. Will was curled up on his chair, head in his hands.

Victor carefully crept closer, kneeling beside Sherlock’s chair. Whatever Watson had done this time, he would kill him.

“Will?”, he asked quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to him.

“Maybe John is right. I’m not the same person anymore. Look at me. Pathetic. Years ago I would have solved that case in no time. And now...” His voice was quiet, broken.

Yep, Victor was definitely going to kill that f-uhm doctor. He really had to stop swearing in his head. That was very unlike him.

“Hey.” Victor gently laid his hands on the detective’s knees. “I know you. You’re strong. You’ll get better.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I used to be so much faster. I used to be _good_ at what I was doing. And now? If I don’t have the work, I have nothing.”

Victor knew what he was talking about. Other people had their careers, but they also had a family, loved ones, on which they could fall back on. Sherlock, as much as himself, had missed this mark. They were in a difficult age, their mid and late (himself) thirties. It wasn’t too late yet, they could still catch up with other people their age, but Victor knew, that this wasn’t their thing. They wouldn’t settle down and have a family, kids. This wasn’t their life. And yet. Victor found himself missing something. Someone. Sometimes.

“This isn’t true, and you know it. You are smart.”

“Were you just listening?”

“You are still smart. You could go edit the textbooks you love to complain about. You could teach chemistry at uni. You could move to the countryside and keep bees.”

Will blinked at him.

“That used to be our idea for retirement.”

Victor smiled fondly.

“It doesn’t have to be. It could be now.”

“But then...”

Their eyes locked.

“It wasn’t the idea to do it alone.”

“Who said that?”

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously.

“You won’t give up your job, Victor. You are just like me. If I still were myself, I wouldn’t, couldn’t, give it up either. Still can’t. But I... I can’t go on like this either.”

Victor knew he was right. But he also knew something else. He didn’t want to be without Sherlock anymore.

“I would leave, for a few months at most maybe, to complete a mission, then I’d return to you. We could make it work.”

If Sherlock was surprised, he didn’t let it on.

“After we finish this case, maybe. We’ll see.”

Victor put his hand around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him close until their foreheads touched. 

“Whatever you decide to do, I meant it, Sherlock. I would like to come back. I would like to... give _us_ a try.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, briefly, before he gently pushed Victor back.

“I...”

Sherlock out of words. This was bad.

“You don’t have to decide now. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

Victor squeezed Sherlock’s hands, as the latter nodded. He knew that Sherlock didn’t want him to leave, as the detective had told him when he had been vulnerable in a hospital bed, but he also knew that admitting to any of those feelings was new to Sherlock and that he would need time. Atop of all that, he also had to deal with now relying on medication for his mind, not being able to control it as he used to. It had to be an awful lot to take in at the same time and Victor was prepared to give him every time in the world.

Victor got up and went to sit in the chair opposite Sherlock’s. He loathed to ask but he had to know that the bastard hadn’t done any more damage.

“So, what was so urgent for Watson that he interrupted our movie night?”

“John thinks you are behind the attack on me.”, Sherlock stated, back in his usual no-nonsense voice. This was territory he was alright with. A problem he could deal with, something tangible.

Victor frowned.

“And I thought I planned so well. I was careful. If someone like him could figure it out that easily, I’m sure you thought of it way before that.”

Sherlock stapled his fingers underneath his chin, leaning back against the backrest of the chair. His blue eyes scanned Victor closely, as the other leaned back in his chair as well. They kept their eyes locked.

“For a secret agent it was a pretty bad performance.”

Victor smirked dangerously.

“For a consulting detective you were a pretty easy victim.”

“I heard that one before. Try better.”

Victor got up, stalking towards Sherlock, his movements as fluid as a giant cat stalking its prey.

“You should be more afraid, Mr Holmes. You don’t know what danger you are in.”

“Don’t I?”

Victor stopped in front of him, bending down, his hands on the armrests of the chair, his eyes still not leaving Sherlock’s.

They glared at each other before Victor bend forward and pressed his lips to the detective’s.

“You are way too trusting.”, he said after pulling back.

“Maybe I’m just confident that I could get away.”

“Is that so?”

Without a warning, Sherlock’s hands shot up to grab Victor’s shoulders. The secret agent had expected it, but he let it happen.

Sherlock managed to get him off balance, and slipped out of the chair, giving himself more freedom to move, but at the same time more access to Victor, who was already close again, trying to land a quick punch to Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock blocked him expertly and went for Victor’s face, unprotected at the moment.

The spy moved so fast, that Sherlock’s fist hit the air, throwing the detective slightly off balance.

Victor used his chance, landing a blow against Sherlock’s ribs. The detective had tried to duck but had been too slow. Still, he had at least managed to not get the full force of the hit.

Sherlock spun back around, this time going for Victor’s torso. 

Victor saw the blow long before Sherlock decided to make it. This had always been his greatest weakness while boxing. He would look at the spot where he was going to hit. For some amateurs, and frankly most professional boxers, this look, really just a glance, was way too fast to identify and react to, but none of them were Victor. Even before his training for the MI6 he had been exceptionally good at boxing, but after he had pretty much won every fight. Mycroft had seen his talent long before he had been aware of it, apparently.

Victor blocked Sherlock once again, grasping his wrist tightly and pulling him in.

“You still trying to win against me, Will? You know you won’t.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Determination shone in his eyes and Victor admired him for that. Sherlock had gotten better, he had to admit that. Maybe it also had to do with the fact that he had been out there for two years, basically killing people of Moriarty’s network with his bare hands (there were reports that Victor would never tell Sherlock about), fighting for his life.

Victor released Sherlock’s wrist and the detective reacted fast. He landed a punch against Victor’s ribs, which confirmed the spy’s thoughts. Sherlock had indeed gotten better, just not as good as him.

Victor’s next blow was blocked by Sherlock, as was the next one. But Victor didn’t give him any time to pause. He kept throwing punches in such a fast order, that Sherlock had no choice but to stay defensive.

The detective tried to land a blow to the spy’s stomach, but Victor was fast to block it and use Sherlock’s unguarded side to his advantage. He hit him against his ribs again, this time full force.

Sherlock winced and Victor used his distraction to kick Sherlock’s feet from under him.

Sherlock hit the floor and Victor was atop him in no time.

“You’re not playing fair.”, Sherlock complained.

Victor grinned.

“Never said I would.”

Sherlock tried to get Victor off him, but Victor pinned his arms above his head, straddling him effectively, so he wasn’t even able to buck his hips up anymore.

Sherlock huffed annoyedly.

“You need to get back to training, Will.”, the spy teased.

Sherlock looked anywhere in the room but Victor’s face.

The secret agent watched him closely. No anxiety attack, no panic in his eyes. The medications did their work it seemed.

Victor took both of Sherlock’s writs into one hand and brushed the other’s ribs with his other.

“Does it hurt?”

“For the fact that you can break a man’s ribs with one blow, not really.”

Victor huffed a laugh. His hand travelled further down towards the pockets of Sherlock’s trousers.

If Victor wouldn’t know better, he would have said that Sherlock blushed. But surely Sherlock Holmes didn’t blush?

Victor’s idle fingers slipped inside the pocked, tugging out a small, square foil packet.

“How long have you been carrying this around?”, Victor asked with interest, not looking away from Sherlock’s face.

Finally, Sherlock met his gaze, but he didn’t say anything.

“When did you plan on asking me?”

Sherlock still didn’t answer.

“It was for me, I assume? Or have you found anyone else in the meantime?”

Sherlock sighed once more, trying to sound annoyed, but it came out more as longing.

“I stole it from John, he always carries them around. After what you said in the hospital, I wanted to be prepared. Just in case...”

“In case I wanted to shag you?”, Victor purred and looked at the little package in his hand. “But I’m afraid, my dear...” Victor bend down to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “This size is way too small for me.”  
Sherlock gasped for air like a fish out of water. Victor drew back, smirking. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and dark, his breathing unsteady and fast.

“And I’m pretty sure it won’t fit you.”

He threw the package over his shoulder.

“Too bad.”

The detective underneath him was still speechless.

Victor bend forward again, shifting so his crotch was pressed against Sherlock’s. He could clearly feel the younger’s need against him, and now he also gave Sherlock an idea of what he had been talking about, being in a similar state as the detective himself.

Sherlock tried to buck up, but Victor didn’t let him.

And Sherlock whined. He actually whined.

Victor stroked his hair with his free hand, kissing him gently.

“Not yet, my bee.”

Victor saw the confusion in the younger’s eyes and he clarified. “I would like to do this right. I don’t want to rush this. This is all so new, we just found each other again. If I take you, and I will, then it will be in a proper bed, by candle light.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but he was fighting a smile that threatened to come on his lips.

“You’re still sickeningly romantic.”

“And you still like it.”

Victor got up with a last kiss to Sherlock’s lips, holding out a hand to his friend to help him up.

Sherlock took it and got to his feet, brushing invisible dust off his trousers.

Victor laughed, shaking his head at him, before enveloping Sherlock in his arms again.

“I promise I’ll find that bastard that tried to kill you, and I will skin him alive for trying to take you away from me.”

Victor’s voice was cold and dangerous. Sherlock shivered in his arms.

“_We_ will.”, the detective corrected him.

Victor understood what Sherlock didn’t say. That it could be dangerous and he wouldn’t risk losing him ever again now that he had him back. He understood because he himself felt the same way.

Victor held Sherlock close and kissed the top of his head.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to-“

Victor shushed his boyfriend.

“I know. We have got a lot to catch up on, to get used to again. This can’t be done in a couple of weeks.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement while Victor held him even tighter. He remembered only too clearly how hard it had been to leave him the first time and he swore to himself that he would never do this to him or to Will. They would never have to go through this again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers.  
I got bad news. We are not finished yet and I will need at least one more chapter to get the story finished, if not two. I got a little carried away with the case and everything happening and well, here we are.  
This chapter is a little creepy, so if you are easily triggered by horror, please do skip the last part of Sherlock awakening in his bed.  
Otherwise the usual tags apply.  
Hope you enjoy.  
x C.

VICTOR

Victor threw the small glass plate for the microscope across the room angrily. 

Sherlock winced, his head ducking low.

He really had to be more careful as to not induce a panic attack in the younger, which had been rare, thanks to the medication Sherlock took, but still.

Victor buried his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry. But I just can’t find anything else in there, no matter how many times I go over everything. Apart from this flimsy soil samples nothing makes any sense at all. And these samples are not enough to find, let alone prove something.”

Sherlock sighed, pushing the second microscope from him.

“I know, but we have nothing to go on. Nothing at all.” He sounded as bitter as Victor felt. Neither of them wanted to admit it, but they would have to wait for the next attack, for the next victims to be discovered, and then hope for them to leave one mistake, with which they could narrow the possible people down. Right now, there were too many Romanians alone in London to be even remotely narrowed down. Also, they only had this one soil sample from the one crime scene. It wasn’t found on the others, meaning it could have completely by chance that the person happened to walk along the Thames, and not that they lived there.

Victor sighed, getting up.

“Do you want some tea?”

Sherlock nodded, staring at the table. Victor knew what he felt like, but he could offer no consolation at the moment. Sherlock was battling depression and PTSD, while working on a frustrating case. He shouldn’t be doing this, of course he shouldn’t, but Sherlock without his work wasn’t Sherlock, and so Victor assumed that it was probably better and more beneficial for Sherlock to work than just to sit around and wait for things to get better. Victor knew from himself that the process would take time, but work had eventually helped him to get over it, although he had been a little less affected than his boyfriend had. Nowadays he was mainly without spells of depression and could be without medications.

Sherlock yawned as Victor put a teacup in front of him.

“You should probably go to bed. It’s not as if we’re going to get anywhere with this anytime soon.” If at all, but he left that part unsaid.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, nodding.

“You coming?”

They both would never admit it, but they were cuddlers, apparently when it came to each other, and so they enjoyed their nights spent together. 

“I just want to check over one theory. It’ll probably be nothing but I won’t be able to sleep unless I do.”

Sherlock took another sip of his tea and stood.

“Don’t stay up too long.”

Victor smiled at the admonishment from Sherlock. Usually it had been the other way around. But it showed that Sherlock cared and that was worth more than anything else.

The younger man went over to Victor, bent down and gently kissed his lips. This was... new. Victor was too surprised to reciprocate and Sherlock had already turned away by the time he reacted, so he decided it would be better just to not acknowledge it again, apart from smile fondly at Sherlock. 

Sherlock went to Marie’s bed, picking the sleepy kitty up (she slept a lot more than other cats did as far as Victor could tell) and took her with him into the bedroom. He didn’t close the door completely; he never did until Victor came to bed and closed it himself.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock woke to Marie moving from the bed and leaving through the gap in the door. Probably she needed the loo or was thirsty. She would come back eventually, or Victor would take her back in when he came to sleep beside him.

The faint glow of light from outside the door told Sherlock that Victor was still busy working in the kitchen. He really hoped that he would find something, but at the same time knew that he wouldn’t. Despite not being a hundred percent himself, Sherlock knew that they had done everything they could. There was nothing to find or they would have found it already. But Victor was very much like him. Or, was very much like he used to be. Not too long ago he himself would have been sitting with Victor until the early morning hours, trying to find something, anything to get closer to finding these Romanians. Now the medication prevented him from staying awake for too long. It made him sleep better than he ever had, but at the same time Sherlock loathed it. He would try to get off it as soon as he could. He needed to speak with his doctor that this definitely wasn’t a permanent solution for someone like him. He couldn’t spend his entire life sleeping.

Suddenly a floor board on the far side of the room croaked as if someone had stepped onto it.

Sherlock flinched and turned towards the darkness, waiting for someone to attack him, for someone to grab him and- No, there was no one there. This was only his imagination. His beloved mind playing tricks on him.

Sherlock took a deep breath, letting it back out slowly. There was nothing to worry about. He would not prompt another panic attack over nothing. He was stronger that the PTSD. He would not go back into this hell of a place, not even in his mind. He simply would not allow it.

The floor board creaked again and Sherlock sat up straight, staring at the dark wall. There was almost no light falling through the blinds on his windows, so he couldn’t be hundred percent sure there wasn’t someone. But who could it be? One of the Romanians? They were good but they would have needed to sneak past Victor and he was a highly trained spy.

On the other hand... Victor. What if he was unconscious out there? Or worse? What if Victor was dead? What if they had already killed him and were now coming for him?

The darkness changed. The smell of the room became damp and mouldy. The creaking floorboard merged into the sound of heavy boots on concrete. They were coming for him again. They would continue what they had started so many many many many hours ago.

Sherlock screamed for help. He didn’t want to but his body, his mind ordered him to do something, anything to get out of here. Anything to have help.

Victor. Where was Victor?

Sherlock screamed again.

Nothing.

Victor was dead.

The steps were getting louder. They were standing beside his bed now.

Soon their rough hands would take his wrists and shackle them back up. He would be beaten and abused again for hours on end, until his back was nothing but strips of flesh and skin hanging loosely from his too thin body. They would laugh as he buckled underneath the pain of the lashings, as he lost control of his bladder, soiling his filthy trousers even more. 

When they were bored with him not talking and hanging there almost passed out, they would get buckets of ice-cold water and throw it at him to “clean” him up, as they called it. The water would burn in his fresh wounds and would do nothing to clean him, as the trousers stayed on. Well, he had to be grateful for small mercies, he supposed. He hadn’t been raped.

Sherlock could feel them reaching out now. They would grab him.

And he screamed. 

And screamed. 

And screamed.

He couldn’t let them take him again. He couldn’t let this happen again.

_Darkness._

_Blood dripping from his body to the dirty concrete underneath._

_The sound of a whip slashing through the air._

_The sickening, wet sound of it as it hit Sherlock’s already wounded back._

_Men laughing._

_Harsh Serbian voices cutting into his mind._

_Someone grabbing him._

_Shaking him._

Sherlock screamed.

And screamed.

“...Will. Will. Will!”

Why did they sound frightened?

Why did they know his name?

Why did...

His own bedroom slowly came back into view, the lights turned on now.

Victor was kneeling on the bed beside him, holding his arms in a tight grip, worry and a little bit of fear written all over his face.

“Will? Are you back with me?”

Sherlock gave a shaky nod, eyes darting around as if to make sure that he was definitely back in his room and not hallucinating.

Why had this happened now? He hadn’t had one of these attacks in days, actually a few weeks now. The medications had helped. Why had they stopped working?

Victor scooted closer, pulling a trembling Sherlock in his arms. When had he started to tremble?

“It will take a while to get better. You made some huge progress already. This was bound to happen, don’t worry. It was the same for me.”

Sherlock appreciated that Victor was trying to make him feel better, but it didn’t really help. Every of these attacks made him feel more worthless, more broken. He had always been able to control his mind and now, now he was this pathetic-

“Will. I can hear you think and I know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. Stop it right now.”

A soft hand wound itself into his hair and started to gently pet him.

“I’m here now. Nothing will happen to you tonight.”, Victor assured him.

And Sherlock believed him, although the memory still lingered only too vividly in the back of his mind.

“Let me just turn off the lights and get you some water, then I’ll be with you, yes?”

Sherlock nodded and watched Victor leave the room.

Marie made her way back in on soft paws and Sherlock bent down to pick her up. As he did so, he briefly glanced underneath the bed and could see heavy boots standing on the other side. He shot back up, a confused kitty in his hands, but there was nothing.

Sherlock scooted closer to the edge of the bed, looking down. Nothing.

A few minutes later, Victor joined him once more in bed, turning off the lights and pulling him close, Marie cuddling close somewhere between them.

Sherlock was safe. He was with someone who loved him. Two someones who loved him. That would be enough to keep the nightmares and flashbacks at bay, for now.

VICTOR

Victor was woken up rather crudely by his phone ringing. He had kept it on loud, just in case there would be any developments on the case and someone needed his help, but right now he regretted this, as Sherlock, who was currently lying with his head on the spy’s chest, sleeping peacefully, was awoken also. 

The elder man blinked against the too bright light of the display, trying to read the caller ID. 

“Mycroft.”, he mumbled into the speaker as soon as he had slid his finger across the display to accept the call.

Sherlock stirred on his chest and moved higher up to be able to listen in on the call.

“Victor. I was informed of a new murder case of one of ours.”

And just like that Victor was awake.

“Where?”

“Northampton. I had the files sent to you already. I had to put some more agents on the case. I’m sorry but we have to find them before they manage to kill all of the involved. And if they keep going at this rate, it might not take them overly long.”

“Shit.”, Victor mumbled and put a hand across his eyes. “I apologise.” He sighed. “I understand that you had to put someone else on the case, but are you sure none of them is involved? Sherlock was already attacked. The more people know that we are on the case...”

“There are several agents on the case, independent from each other. I won’t give you their names, they won’t get yours. I have to make sure it’s safe for everyone, obviously.”

“Can we go to the crime scene now?”

“Yes, you’re the first ones I called because I have the highest hopes in you two that you will find something. I need you to tear the place to pieces, if necessary, but you have to find something.”

The call ended and Sherlock blinked up at Victor.

“Is he always like this when you work for him?”

Victor huffed a laugh.

“This is him being frustrated. He will get worse if there are no results and people keep dying.”

Victor sat up and therefore also brought Sherlock into a sitting position with him.

“Ready to go to a crime scene?”

Sherlock frowned but nodded.

Victor knew that things like thinking and focussing were hard on his boyfriend these days, but he would never put his attention to it. Knowing Sherlock as well as he did, he knew that the man wanted to be treated as he had been before everything went downhill. 

Victor remembered only too vividly being in the same situation and people treating him with velvet gloves. He had hated it and was sure Sherlock would too.

The clock on Victor’s phone read 3:41AM. He had gotten a little over two hours of sleep. How he loved his job. 

VICTOR

Victor and Sherlock exited the, by Mycroft provided, cab, both with too little sleep but so full of adrenaline, that neither of them notice. Victor knew that Sherlock loved this rush as much as he did. They both needed it desperately. That’s why they had the jobs they had. And that was why they wouldn’t have been able to settle down with each other in earlier years. Now, Victor thought, this might be a little different. Now Victor could see himself content like this, hunting killers and solving mysteries in London without the thrill of the possibility of getting himself killed at any moment. He had learned to love the risk so much, that he hadn’t realised how close he had come to actually dying a few times. And after what Will had said to him over the time he had been back in the country, he would never ever put himself in that risk again. He couldn’t do that to his boyfriend.

“We should have brought Marie.”, Sherlock mumbled underneath his breath, tearing Victor out of his thoughts.

Victor huffed a laugh.

“Why’s that?”

“Because she’s more intelligent than at least half of the people standing around here.”

Victor let his gaze wander over the area. A yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a spot not too far from the road where they had excited the car. The ground was muddy and the occasional tree threw long shadows, where the lights illuminating the crime scene hit them.

Beside him, Sherlock shuddered and Victor glanced over. He had wanted to take Marie as comfort, but the detective would never openly admit that. Victor’s luck was that he could read him just as good as the younger could read him.

There was something off about Sherlock since last night. The way Victor had found him in his bed after he had been alarmed by the detective’s screams had been... off. There was clearly something that Sherlock wasn’t telling him. Victor wasn’t one to push, but he worried about Sherlock. Especially if he could see that the younger wasn’t telling the whole truth about what was going on.

But Victor had other things to worry about now.

Sherlock was a great help to him, despite his mental issues at the moment, and Victor was glad to have him on his side on such a complicated case.

They simply had to find something they could use, otherwise these bastards would continue killing until no one was left. But everyone made mistakes sooner or later. With his and Sherlock’s mind combined, they were bound to find this mistake. It just had to be something they couldn’t influence. A hair with enough root to distract DNA from, a drop of saliva, anything. They would find it.

Victor entered the crime scene with Sherlock in tow. The police officers made space for them without a word.   
The secret agent’s eyes immediately scanned the scene in front of them. 

He knew that his brain worked a little different from Sherlock’s. If everything was alright, Sherlock was the one who was better at finding clues and seeing things that were invisible to others.

For Victor it was a little harder to see a crime scene like Sherlock did. He was much better at assessing situations, fighting, and numbers and codes. He was better at preventing a crime from happening than analysing a crime after it had happened.

Victor could sense Sherlock being agitated without looking over at him. He stuck close to Victor; their hands almost touching. Something was clearly upsetting the detective and Victor knew that it wasn’t the crime scene itself.

“Do you want to have a closer look at the victim, Will?”

Sherlock nodded and Victor took a step forward.

“I’ll leave her to you. I’ll scan the area.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before he gave a sharp nod and went to kneel beside the victim. He snapped on some disposable gloves, which he always carried with him. Victor knew that he didn’t mind touching a dead body with his bare hands, but forensics were usually a little fussy about that, so he had stopped it. This was actually something he had found out through John Watson’s blog, on which Victor had caught up as soon as he knew that it existed. It hadn’t been as good as actually having Sherlock by his side, but good enough to keep tabs on him.

Victor turned his back to Sherlock because he knew that if he didn’t, he would end up watching his detective at work instead of doing his own job properly. Since he had been back, Sherlock hadn’t really been too active on previous crime scenes and so Victor hadn’t had a chance to watch him back in action. It was a delight to watch him work.

Victor scanned the area carefully, but it was a nightmare, even for someone as experienced as him in finding traces. Rain had let any possible track marks vanish in mud. Also, any possible evidence would have disappeared in the mushy ground, not to be found unless someone was practically searching through it with a fine comb. Which he would make forensics do, if they couldn’t come up with anything useful themselves.

“Are you alright, sir?”, he heard suddenly from behind and turned.

A police officer stood beside Sherlock, who had moved to stand, turned away from the victim, a haunted look on his eyes as he scanned the trees in the distances.

Victor slowly approached the man.

“Sherlock? Will?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth between the shadows as if he was searching for something. His breathing had sped up too, Victor realised.

“Sherlock?”

The detective snapped out of whatever trance he had been in and seemed to notice Victor beside him.

“Victor.”

“Are you alright?”

“I...” Sherlock didn’t seem sure, but he shook his head and blinked. “Yes, fine.”, he answered sternly, turning back towards the body.

Victor noticed that he was a little too pale, even for him, and appeared to be sweating, but he decided not to say anything. He didn’t want to put Sherlock in a position that others might think less of him. Victor knew how important his reputation was to the detective.

“I found something.”, Sherlock announced to Victor’s surprise.

He looked at the younger expectantly.

“I need an evidence bag. Now.”, he instructed the police officer closest to them, who scrambled to obey his order.

Sherlock crouched down once more and Victor followed.

“They don’t have a clear MO, as we already suspected. The first victim was strangled, the second was beaten to death, this one was stabbed and clearly placed out here. He wasn’t murdered here.”

The police officer handed Sherlock an evidence bag.

Sherlock took it and swooped something tiny, invisible from the man’s shirt and carefully put it into the bag, before he secured it close.

Victor narrowed his eyes at the bag, trying to see what Sherlock had seen. And then...

“A hair.”, he exhaled.

Sherlock handed the bag back to the officer.

“Make sure this goes into forensics right now. If I’m right, this is no human hair. It should be an animal hair. The structure looks different.”

Victor frowned.

“He could have a pet.”

“Unlikely. He’s an agent. Would you have a pet if you lived this kind of life?”

Victor gave him a look loaded with meaning.

“Point taken.”, Sherlock acquiesced. “But theoretically it’s unlikely for an active agent to have a family and pets. But more important, if it was his pet, he would have way more hairs on himself as this one. No matter how meticulous he was, animal hair would get into his closet and everywhere. There would be some more to find. I couldn’t see any. He has to be double checked, of course, but I’m sure that’s it.”

The police officer had been making notes all the while.

Victor stared at Sherlock.

This was the boy he had met so many years ago, the boy who had dreamed of making a living with his deductions. This was the young genius that he had had the pleasure of seeing grow into a man. He was nothing but impressed.

And a little aroused.

He would have never admitted it, and by no means on a crime scene, but it affected him quite badly when Sherlock was all smart and showing off. It really triggered something inside Victor that he would never really understand. Especially now that he had seen Sherlock come apart underneath him days ago, he felt even stronger. He wanted the so well put together and aloof detective to give up control again at his hands. Or mouth. Or c-

“Victor?”

Victor blinked and realised that he was still crouching beside the body while everyone else stood and looked at him. 

He quickly got to his feet, clearing his throat.

Were he more prone to blushing, he would be bright red right now.

“Anything else you wanted to check?”, Sherlock asked but something in his voice told Victor that his boyfriend would prefer to go home. Whatever he had seen in the trees, or maybe just thought to see, must have upset him more than he would like to admit.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock knew that Victor had been watching him throughout the whole cab ride, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him what he had seen in the shadows of the trees. Or better, what he hadn’t seen. There had been nothing, and yet it had seemed as if there had been something, watching him. 

Sherlock was angry with himself that he had let his brain do this to him in front of everyone on the scene. Now Victor could be certain that there was something wrong with him. Some part of Sherlock had hoped that things would go well between them now, especially after Victor had touched him so lovingly. The first person to make him lose control like this. But now... The detective knew that Victor was too much of a gentleman as to sleep with him while he was so... distraught.

Sherlock didn’t even know if he wanted to sleep with Victor. Well, yes, he wanted to. But his brain was... wrong. His mind was off. Everything felt weird. Nothing was right. Argh...

“Will?”

Sherlock looked up at Victor and realised that the cab had come to a halt. He quickly moved to exit it, but Victor’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“What’s going on?”, his friend asked so gently that Sherlock felt his throat tighten.

He just shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He turned and stepped out of the cab, heading towards his flat. 

Victor was only seconds behind him, catching him before he could reach the door. The spy’s arms came around him, holding him tightly against the other man.

And just like this, Sherlock broke. 

He wasn’t sure what exactly happened, but Victor somehow managed to get them inside the flat and on the sofa, holding a sobbing Sherlock against his chest.

“Abeille. My bee.”

Victor kissed his head, stroking through his curls with gentle fingers.

“I’m... I’m sorry.”, Sherlock managed to get out.

“Shh. None of that now. There is nothing to be sorry for. You’re going to be alright again. You did so well today at the crime scene. You found this hair. I’m sure we’ll find something connected with it.”

Sherlock wasn’t convinced but something in him purred at the praise. It had been way too long since he had heard praise from someone else about his abilities. It made him cry once more. 

Victor stayed calm, petting him gently.

Suddenly Sherlock felt something against his leg and he looked down, seeing Marie staring up at him with her huge eyes.

He reached down, settling her on his lap. 

A kiss on his cheek made him melt into Victor again.

“Something’s not right, Vic.” Sherlock fixed his eyes on Marie, gently petting her head. “I... I saw something yesterday. And today again, in the trees. It’s nothing more than a shadow but it’s there. It feels... dark. Evil.” Sherlock laughed humourlessly. “I know it’s not real. But I can’t unsee it. What’s happening to me, Vic?”

Victor didn’t say anything for quite a while.

“Did you stop taking your medications?”

Sherlock shook his head. Although he had toyed with the thought more than once, he knew that Victor believed they helped him. And he had seen that they did help him a little. So he had continued to take them regularly.

“Maybe it’s just a phase? Let’s see what’s going to happen in the next few days, shall we? I’ll stay here with you. If you see something again, you call me.”

Sherlock knew that Victor only wanted to help, but he also knew that the other man wouldn’t be able to see what he was seeing. Nonetheless he gave a short nod.

SHERLOCK

Victor was typing on his laptop, his eyes focussed on the screen, but Sherlock knew the man still too well from their earlier years spent together and knew that he was anxious. It had been more than two days that they had been at the crime scene and there was no result on the hair yet. It took a while for the forensics lab to analyse the sample, Sherlock knew that, but in this case, time was of the utmost importance and he and Victor needed results now.

Mycroft texted Victor twice a day by now, asking for results, although he knew that they would get back to him once they had new information. Sherlock was under no illusion that his brother was definitely being given a lot of pressure from above too. He was one of the top people in the country, and therefore he would also be one of the most pressured ones.

Sherlock just wanted the case to be over, because he saw what a strain it put on the two most important people in his life. He also wanted it to be over because he knew of the constant danger for Victor. He was at risk. That his own life was at stake too, well, that was a risk he was used to living with. 

Sherlock was sitting on his chair, dressed, petting Marie. He would never openly admit it, but she helped a lot with his bad phases. The soft fur underneath his fingers, the gentle vibrations she emitted when she purred. He was truly glad that Victor had thought about something like this. Now, even on his bad days, he managed to get out of bed and get dressed.

Victor sighed at his laptop.

“News?”, Sherlock asked but didn’t dare to hope.

Before Victor could answer, Sherlock’s phone rang. The detective looked at the offending thing on the coffee table. 

Victor followed his gaze and scooted forward, taking the phone and, with a confirming glance at Sherlock, accepted the call.

“DI Lestrade. How can I help?”, he greeted the man while Sherlock looked down at Marie.

He felt stupid but he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone but Victor at the moment. Today he didn’t feel too bad, maybe a little tired from the tablets, but not down like on so many other days.

Victor’s voice grew excited and Sherlock’s gaze snapped to his friend.

The blonde smiled a little.

“Great... No, that’s alright. For the short time it was to be expected... Hmhm... Send it over to me right now please. I will match it myself... Yes, I have the software... No, really, that’s fine.... Great, thanks... Yes, we’ll do that. Thanks. Bye.”

Victor grinned at Sherlock, getting up, laptop and phone in hand, to kiss a stunned detective on the lips.

Sherlock just stared at him.

“What happened?”

“The hair. Feline. They have also found a particular colour scheme and some DNA profile. I’ll try to match it now in the system and we’ll have a breed, hopefully, within the next few hours. Lestrade also confirmed that the victim didn’t have a cat nor any friends who own cats. Therefore...”

Sherlock reached out and pulled Victor back to him, kissing his soft lips again. He should definitely do this more often.

“I‘ll contact Mycroft right now. We need statistics of all the cat owners in London. He should have access to such files.”

Victor smiled at him. 

“You’re so brilliant. We’ll have a suspect by tonight.”

Sherlock smiled and felt something like happiness bubbling up in him. The rush of the case getting somewhere, the giddiness that Victor’s presence usually brought with him; he was sure that this was better than any chemical substance that he could put into his system. And he wasn’t even talking about drugs now, but about the anti-depressants he was taking at the moment. 

SHERLOCK

“Got it!”

Sherlock looked up from his own laptop where he had just been looking into the registered cat owners of London.

As soon as Mycroft had gotten word that the hair, which had been found was a cat hair, he had sent Sherlock a data base of all the vets in London, so he could skim through the different breeds, matching them to the owners.

“The forensic lab sent me the DNA structure of the part of hair root, which they found attached to the hair. Also, the colour pattern is quite distinct, only matching to about 300 breeds of cats. The most popular of them, which are about 180, are mainly crossbreeds. Now I had to figure out if the breed was a pure breed or not.” 

Victor looked at his laptop again, scrolling down the page. Sherlock squirmed a little in his seat. Victor wasn’t as arrogant as him, but he did like to show off his brilliance sometimes, even if it was in a more genuine manner than Sherlock’s usually was. 

He had always been like this, Victor. He had been quiet until he had the right answer, and then he would let out his brilliant deduction, sometimes even more detailed and more astonishing than Sherlock’s own.

This always had been a real turn on for young Sherlock, who had admired the person who was smarter than himself. He had loved to listen to Victor when he was like this, only to then quickly rush off to the bathroom to, well, take care of some little problem that had, ah, well, arisen.

Now, Sherlock realised, this was another something that hadn’t changed in all these years. Especially now that he knew what Victor’s hand felt between his legs. It just made the thought even more exciting.

Victor didn’t seem to realise any of Sherlock’s inner tumult, and just carried on with his explanations.

“The cat breed is, fortunately for us, a pure breed. Now I only had about 25 cat breeds to go through to match it exactly. Even more fortunately for us, I looked into cats quite recently before I purchased Marie. It’s not the same breed, but equally, if not more, expensive. The breed we’re currently looking for is a Bengal cat.”

Victor looked up and Sherlock’s gaze quickly went down to his own screen again, checking for Bengals, and also to avoid looking into the spy’s eyes.

“Also.”, Victor started to speak again. “There was some kind of dirt on the hair. The analysis that they sent me didn’t hundred percent match with what I had in the system for analysing the hair, so I figured there must be something on there. I filtered the data that didn’t match and you know what I found?”

Victor paused and Sherlock had to look up. He was sure that by now he had to be blushing quite brightly.

“It was a partial match with the soil sample we analysed. Therefore, you only have to look in these areas for any cat owners with a Bengal. That should narrow it down drastically.”

And just like that, Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. He stood, put his laptop down, and rushed towards the bathroom. He was sure he had mumbled something along the lines of “will be back”, but he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of that.

VICTOR

Victor looked after him, a slight frown on his face. Had he said something wrong?

It wasn’t like Will to just disappear all of a sudden. It was suspicious. Was he feeling sick from his medication? (He had had some days where he hadn’t felt so well and brought everything he ate back up.) Or was it something to do with the case?

Victor got up slowly and followed Sherlock to the bathroom. The door was now closed and he lifted a hand to knock. He wanted to check if his boyfriend was alright.

That was when he heard it.

Soft moans and gasps came from within.

Victor’s breath caught in his throat. This couldn’t be. It was like in his wildest dreams. Could Sherlock really be touching himself because of him? He had known the younger had liked his explanations, his intelligence, but he hadn’t known that he had gotten off on it. And apparently still did.

Had it always been like this? Had Will always sneaked to the bathroom after Victor had explained something to him, to do just what he appeared to be doing just now? It kind of made sense, as the younger had been to the bathroom quite often, but Victor had never made the connection. Now he felt a little stupid that he hadn’t figured it out much earlier.

Another soft moan drifted through the closed door.

Victor felt his own trousers tighten, blood rushing south so fast, that he felt light-headed for a moment.

He himself had snuck into their shared bathroom too many times to count to just relieve himself because he had had a writhing Will in his lap; the younger had never been able to sit still, even while snuggling and reading. Had he known that the other had wanted him just as badly...

Yes, Victor was aware that Sherlock had loved him then but not to what extend his love had gone. The revelation in the hospital had been, well, life changing for Victor, as had the short but sweet encounter in the living room, but Victor knew that Sherlock wasn’t feeling too well yet, so he had held back. He would love to sleep with the younger, but he knew that everything between them would take Sherlock much longer to process than it would a normal person. With him feeling off anyways, Victor hadn’t wanted to overload him. He had known that sex wasn’t a big deal for Sherlock, and that the detective was still a virgin. He had also been a little afraid that sex would alarm him. Judging by the soft noises that came from the bathroom though, it didn’t sound like this was the case.

Victor debated with himself for a short while if he should just leave and give Will his privacy, but then again, if he was the reason for it...

Hoping that this was not the worst idea he had ever had, Victor opened the bathroom door.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock closed the door firmly, leaning against it, taking a deep breath. What the hell was going on with his body lately? His brain didn’t obey him anymore and now this.

His trousers felt uncomfortably tight. Something, he hadn’t experienced in a long while. He wasn’t a very sexual being, his body only demanding release ever so often, which he would usually deal with, quite efficiently, while having a nice hot shower.

Now that Victor had declared his love for him, but he wasn’t sure how to voice his desires to the older. He didn’t want to overstep a boundary that still existed between them. 

Victor had said he wanted to make love to him, but he had also said that he was waiting for the right moment. Well, Sherlock didn’t know what the right moment might look like, and so he had decided to not make any move in that direction and just let his friend decide. The problem with that was, that Victor hadn’t taken a step again either since their encounter in the living room.

With Victor out there now, Sherlock knew that he would need to take care of his problem. It wouldn’t just disappear as it normally did, when his body decided to disobey him and he really didn’t want to pressure Victor into doing anything he didn’t want to do.

Eagerly - too eagerly and he berated himself for it - he went to undo his belt buckle as he moved over to the toilet. Better not to make a mess of his clothes. Or the bathroom.

He undid his fly and pushed his boxers down, just enough to free himself. By the time he took himself in hand, he was already throbbing with anticipation.

It clearly had been too long. Good, because this way it wouldn’t take long for him to achieve release.

Sherlock started to stroke himself, slowly, and it felt so good, that he let out a quiet moan, his free hand shooting out to steady himself on the wall behind the toilet.

Against his will, his hips pushed into his hand, his breathing speeding up. He could barely hold back the quiet moans that forced their way through his lips.

He was close already, his cock throbbing in a delicious way, his balls drawing tight.

And then the door opened.

Sherlock froze and squeezed himself unconsciously, his cheeks starting to burn with shame. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He needed this so desperately. He just prayed that his friend wouldn’t be disappointed or, worse, disgusted with him.

Victor came closer until he was standing behind Sherlock, putting his hands on the detective’s hips and gripping them tightly.

“You don’t know how many times I had to do this in university. Every time you slept in my bed, every time you used to cuddle me and practically writhe in my lap.”, Victor whispered in his ear. “I was so hard that I would only need a few strokes to bring myself to completion.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed as he leaned back into Victor’s solid and warm front, his hand slowly starting to move again.

He was aware that Victor looked over his shoulder at his cock, his friend’s matching erection pressing against his buttocks.

“Sherlock. Will.”, he murmured into his ear, thrusting his hips gently forwards.

Sherlock’s knees buckled but Victor held him upright, sneaking one arm fully around his waist to support him.

Suddenly Sherlock’s hand was dragged from his cock and he whined. Victor shushed him and took him in his own hand.

The detective saw stars, his eyes flying open.

“Vic. Oh yes, please.”

Victor’s hand was perfection. It had been good when he had touched him through his trousers, but this, this let everything else pale in comparison.

Sherlock tried to hold back, but he had no chance. The tension in his body uncoiled, all at once, and he came violently into the toilet.

Victor’s arm around his waist was the only thing holding him upright. 

Sherlock panted heavily, his whole body tingling as he came down from his high. This, he was almost certain, was better than drugs. Victor had always been better than drugs.

“You okay?”, Victor whispered into his ear.

Sherlock turned around and kissed him as an answer.

Victor smiled into the kiss, holding Sherlock close.

“You are gorgeous.”

Sherlock huffed and hid his face in Victor’s shoulder. He was relieved that Victor thought of him like this in his weakest moment, when his brain shut off and he gave in to his body’s mundane desires.

“I love you.”, Victor reassured him, as if he had been reading his thoughts. “Come, let me clean you up.”

Victor let go of Sherlock and took a flannel, wet it and cleaned himself and Sherlock gently, before the detective zipped himself back up.

Victor smirked mischievously at him. Sherlock blushed but then realised that Victor had been just as aroused as he had been. His gaze fell to the front of Victor’s trousers.

“I’m alright for now.”, Victor said, as he pulled Sherlock back into his arms. “I’d like to take my time with you, later.”

Sherlock shifted his thigh so it was between Victor’s legs.

“Are you sure?”

Victor’s breath hitched and he shook his head.

“No.”, the spy whispered and Sherlock could see his control breaking. It was a relief to see that he had the same effect on the older man as his friend had on him.

Sherlock’s hands wandered to Victor’s belt, undoing it and opening the button and zipper of his trousers.

As soon as Sherlock put his fingers into the waistband of Victor’s boxers, the blonde sank back against the sink, his breathing speeding up to an alarming rate.

Sherlock stared at his friend’s face with absolute fascination. His green eyes were almost black because of the enlarged pupils, his cheeks had a lovely light pink colour. 

Sherlock was stunned by the beauty that was displayed in front of his eyes. True, Sherlock had never been one to care particularly about aesthetics that weren’t his own, but now he was absolutely stunned.

“You’re so beautiful.”, he admitted quietly and Victor smiled and pulled him close.

Their lips met in a gentle kiss and Sherlock’s hand sneaked its way into the spy’s boxer shorts. 

Victor gasped, his eyes falling shut as his head leant forward against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock categorized Victor’s reaction as much as he did the feel of the hard but velvety feeling cock in his hand. It felt different from his own, a little bigger and therefore quite impressive (not that he had much to compare with but statistics in his puberty had told him that he himself was a little above average), and hotter. 

He sneaked a glance downwards and loved the way it looked as it glided through his fist, his own fingers wrapped around such a sensitive part of his friend. The sheer trust he had put into him to let him touch it.

Sherlock stroked a little faster, twisting his hand a little at the head, swiping his thumb over it occasionally. He categorized every single gasp and moan that escaped Victor’s throat and revelled in it. It was his confirmation that his friend enjoyed what he did to him as much as he enjoyed doing it to him.

“Will.”, Victor whispered against him, every muscle in his body tense.

“Yes?”, Sherlock whispered back, not stopping his ministrations.

“I’m...” Victor gasped.

“You...?”

Suddenly Victor’s whole body convulsed and liquid warmth spilled over Sherlock’s hand. He was a bit taken aback by the suddenness of it all, but he held Victor close, making sure to keep up the motion of his fist to extend the spy’s orgasm as long as possible. As it seemed, the older had been quite tense already as well.

“Sorry.”, the blonde mumbled as Sherlock stopped his movements.

“What for? As I remember, it was the goal to bring you to orgasm as you did with me, was it not?”

Victor huffed a laugh and kissed the detective.

“Yes, silly, but for coming so fast. Normally I do take a little longer.”

Victor winked at him and Sherlock shrugged.

“We were both quite tense. I assume this will change as we will do this more often.”

The spy laughed again as he turned on the tabs once more so Sherlock could wash his hand and he could clean himself.

“Already planning ahead?”

Sherlock grinned.

“Well, yes.”

Victor smiled and winked at him as he closed his trousers back up.

Sherlock couldn’t help but reciprocate the smile. Before he knew it, Victor’s lips were on his and they lost themselves in a gentle kiss, full of years of unresolved emotions. To think that they could have had that when they were still so young. To think that then they possibly never would have gone separate ways as they had. But this, this made up for all the years of pain and unresolved tensions.

When Victor broke for air, Sherlock followed him with his lips.

The spy brought their foreheads together and Sherlock gladly breathed the same air as Victor.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock woke shivering from the cold and alone.

Victor did go to bed with him, did he not?

Sherlock sat up and looked around the dark room, trying to figure out what woke him.

The bed beside him was cold; so it wasn’t Victor getting up that had ripped him from some finally peaceful sleep.

Sherlock took the duvet, pulling it around himself, trying to get warm. He seemed to have struggled it off at some point; his sleep therefore hadn’t been as peaceful as he had assumed. Maybe the tablets didn’t free him from the nightmares, they just made him forget them, suppressed them.

The detective glanced around the room.

Something felt off. His sixth sense tickled something in his brain. Something wasn’t right. Something in this room wasn’t right.

It was quiet, obviously, because it was the middle of the night, but it was different quiet. It was a quiet that made a noise itself because it was too quiet. The sort of quiet that you would never get in a city like London. No car driving past, no neighbours making any sounds, no water rushing through pipes. It was absolutely _still_. Like the air itself had come to a halt and frozen in time.

Sherlock’s breathing sped up a little. It was comforting that he at least could hear himself. He hadn’t gone deaf.

The quietness, the stillness, unsettled him and goosebumps began to rise on his arms and back. He kept telling himself it was the cold air but despite what he pretended, he knew better.

Sherlock shook his head and laid back down again.

This was ridiculous. It just wouldn’t do for him to be afraid of _nothing_. He, the Great Sherlock Holmes, was definitely _not_ afraid of the dark. Even as a child he had refused to be scared of the darkness. It was people who hurt other people, not monsters lurking in the shadows. And yet the unease he felt never quite left him.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He wasn’t fearing to be back in that dungeon in Serbia. The tablets did their work and therefore, logically, there was nothing to be afraid of. There was no threat in his room.

But he now knew that going back to sleep was an impossibility to him.

He sat back up, reaching out for the bedside lamp and turning it on. The light flickered on and went off immediately again.

Sherlock flinched, although he would never admit that, and was trapped in darkness once more.

He tried the light switch another couple of times although he knew that it wouldn’t come on again.

The detective pulled the covers closer around himself as he scanned the room.

His door wasn’t a far distance from his bed. In a few steps he could be there and out in the hallway.

And then?

Where was Victor? Possibly in the living room, reading a book with a cup of tea, like he usually liked to do when he couldn’t sleep.

But to get to the living room he would have to cross the dark hallway. Again, just a few big steps and he could be fast, but what if _it_ was faster?

Sherlock scolded himself for thinking something so stupid. It was dark because it was night time. Nothing was hiding in the shadows.

And yet his sixth sense had, and still did tell him otherwise.

It was interesting that his rational mind’s first thought hadn’t been that there was a living human being in his room, lurking in the corner, but something else. Something that didn’t exist.

Sherlock eyed the darkest corner of his room.

Absolutely no light seemed to touch it.

And it was closest to the door. Closer than he himself was. If he were to get up...

But that was a stupid thought because there was nothing. Nothing would harm him.

He could just get up and walk out, look for Victor, and maybe get a cup of tea himself.

Sherlock gazed over the side of his bed to the floor.

His bed was far enough off the floor for someone to be hiding beneath. Maybe this was why he had felt the unease? Maybe someone was underneath his bed? _Or something_, his mind provided uselessly, nut he chose to ignore it.

Carefully, as not to disturb whatever was lurking in the shadows, he shifted towards the edge of the bed, eyeing the door.

There was _nothing_ therefore he could just get up and walk. Or run. Running sounded better.

Sherlock had almost reached the edge and pulled his legs up to swing them out of bed, pushing the duvet aside, as the shadow in the corner moved. A subtle, barely-there movement but Sherlock saw it in the corner of his eye and froze.

His body tingled with adrenaline, his brain wide awake now. His eyes frantically tried to see something in the dark but it was impossible. Forms started to move in front of his eyes but he knew it was his brain playing tricks on him. If you stared too intently on a spot in the dark, this was what happened. Nothing unnatural about it. A simple explanation, totally human.

And yet. 

The feeling of threat intensified and the roots of every hair in his body started to prickle. He felt like shutting his eyes as tightly as he could, pretending none of this was happening, but what if it would use the chance to close in? What if it moved when he blinked? Oh dear, how could he still blink with this threat in his head? Pretty sure it would attack when he next blinked.

Sherlock fought the urge to blink, his eyes burning like hell within seconds. He tried as hard as he could, but against his will, his eyes closed, tears forming immediately. He forced his eyes open again, his gaze now blurry from the tears.

The shadow had moved as he had closed his eyes! It was darker now, and much, much closer.

Sherlock was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t move, barely breathe.

The shadow(s) around him closed in, threatening and so, so dark.

And then there was screaming. Someone screamed loudly enough for the neighbours to hear through the thin walls of the London flat.

The bedroom door burst open, light flooded the doorway and Victor stormed in, a look of concern on his face.

Only then Sherlock realised that the scream he had heard, had been his own.  
Victor was at his side in an instant, pulling him into his chest, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“They... the shadows. They are here.”

Sherlock stared at the empty spot beside the door. No shadows anymore.

Victor followed his gaze.

“There are no shadows anymore, Will.”

“But they were here.”

Sherlock was aware that his face must be flushed and his eyes glassy. He probably looked like a lunatic. But Victor’s face only held concern. Concern for him. Not mockery. Not anger. Not disappointment.

"It's gone now."

Victor put a hand on Sherlock's cheek and turned his face towards him.

Sherlock's breathing was still fast, he clearly was on the verge of a panic attack.

"What happened, Will? What shadows were there?"

"They... they were dark and... and they closed in on me. I couldn't move."

Now, saying it out loud with the light of the corridor flooding his bedroom, it all sounded stupid, even to his own ears and despite that just minutes ago he had lived through it and found the shadows to be very real.

"The lamp.", he remembered. "The lamp on the nightstand. It didn't come on."

Victor leaned over, reaching for the lamp. He tried to turn it on; nothing.

"The bulb must be broken. I'll exchange it for you."

The trained spy turned back towards the fragile looking detective huddled on the bed.

"There is no need for me to try to persuade you to sleep again, is there?"

Sherlock shook his head.

Victor should still be familiar with his occasional bursts of insomnia. He would wake up, his brain working on high speed, and if that was the case, there was no use in trying to settle down once more. He would need to find something to do, some puzzle to solve.

In their youth Victor, who suffered from a similar condition more often than not, would make up riddles for him to solve; easy ones, but at the same time so stupid, that Sherlock had to think to solve them. The elder had been good at this. Even when they were not sleeping in the same room, they would call each other in the middle of the night, talking until the dawn broke outside the windows of their parent's country estates.

"Come, I'll make some tea. Maybe you'll even get a riddle."

Sherlock looked up, fascinated that Victor still remembered. He himself would of course insist that he forgot everything that had happened in their past, that he forgot about Victor, but the truth was, he didn't forget a thing. He remembered everything regarding Victor so vividly, as if it had been yesterday that they had been sitting outside in the grass, with their books in their laps, sunshine grazing their always too pale skin.

Victor held out his hand and gave an encouraging smile.

"I couldn't sleep myself, as you might have noticed. I was just reading one of your books."

Sherlock took his hand and Victor led him into the living room.

"I have to say your taste in books got even worse with the years.", he teased and Sherlock managed a small smile.


End file.
